


and give all the love that you have in your soul

by janie_tangerine



Series: jb week 2017 [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (NOT SAYING FOR WHOM), (for now) - Freeform, Aerys Is His Own Warning, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Apocalypse Fix-it, BAMF Brienne, Bittersweet, Brienne is the Best, Brienne's also does as well, Brothels, Canon Gay Character, Confessions, Developing Friendships, Dissociation, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, GUYS R IS NOT REALLY THE BEST IN THIS LAST CHAPTER I WARNED YOU, Greenseeing, Guilt, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Jaime Lannister Has Issues, Jaime/Brienne Appreciation Week, JonC's life sucks ass admittedly, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage, Mental Health Issues, Minor Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Negotiations, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Reunions, Robert's Rebellion, Sort Of, Swordfighting, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Timeline Shenanigans, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Woman on Top, is2g this last part is the fluffiest shit that ever fluffed you were warned, jonc deserves infinitely better, ned stark also deserved better, shit is happening guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-01-10 11:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 90,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12297888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “As in, there is one future where the White Walkers are defeated immediately, the Long Night is merely a passing shadow and we are spared most of the senseless deaths that came upon Westeros since Ned Stark died. But it’s not a future I can try to turn into a reality,” Bran says with a long sigh.“What – what do you mean?” Lord Connington doesn’t sound too convinced, but he’s listening intently, or so it seems from the frown on his face.“That in order for us all to live, Aerys Targaryen must die not sooner and not later than he did, but Rhaegar must live,” Bran says tiredly, “along with Elia Martell and her children. Whether Lyanna Stark does or not is irrelevant, as long as all three children live and know they are the heads of the dragon. It’s no job for someone like me – I can only walk if I visit the past or the future, not if I want to live in it. How useless it is that one has such powers but then cannot even walk, isn’t it?”“You – you mean to – send us to the past?” Brienne asks, barely audible.





	1. Brienne

**Author's Note:**

> So: this was going to be my last jbweek fic for the day seven prompt, _valyrian steel_. Sad, short story: I had the beginning written and then I couldn't manage to finish all the others before this week as I had planned, so I finished at least the first chapter and I'm posting it now so I'm in time for the ending party and I actually have all seven fics up. I swear to all the old gods that I actually have this entire thing planned and I'm going to have it all up before the month is over.
> 
> Also, I know it looks dire from the warnings but trust me I'm not planning for REALLY HORRIBLE THINGS, just... there's gonna be more angst than usual before we get to the good stuff. Bear with me, k? /o\ (PS: I know that the beginning doesn't look like it's faring very well as far as shipping goes, but DON'T WORRY IT WORKS OUT.) (Also, the author has a problem or ten with JonC and his sad life story. It probably shows.)
> 
> Other than that: they belong to GRRM, I own nothing except the plot, the title is from Bruce Springsteen ( ~~ps: this is your sword is *the* j/b song of the century~~ ) and I would like to publicly say that I did take, er, somewhat inspiration for a few things here from Ian Tregillis's _Milkweed Tryptich_ , which was an a++ series but about gutted me. A lot. And okay, here we go, see you with chapter two hopefully as soon as possible. (I'm planning around seven but it could be one more or one less, we'll see.) *saunters back downwards*

The blasted, horrible cold has toughened Winterfell’s ground to the point that it feels harder than diamonds, so Brienne has been _hours_ at digging this bloody grave –

But she’s going to dig it if it’s the last thing she does, and it may as well be.

If anything, she knows Jaime appreciates the irony of being buried _here_.

 

_“Look at that, my lady”, he had said as he coughed blood, “it’s only fitting that I should die where I committed my most nefarious act.”_

_Brienne had wanted to tell him that he had to_ live _and that he wasn’t going to die, but she hasn’t been in the habit of lying to herself since the Long Night fell upon them all._  

 _“You know_ he _doesn’t blame you,” Brienne had said, her fingers grasping Jaime’s, his left hand keeping such a weak grip on her right one, she had wanted to cry._

_“I know, I heard that tree when it talked to me, but it’s still fitting.” Then he had spat some more blood._

_She had figured the two of them would have an honorable death fighting against the Others, and that it’d have been sooner rather than later, given that there are not many people left in the castle anymore, nor in Westeros, and the sun hasn’t risen in two moons._

_She hadn’t imagined he’d die of bloody pneumonia before being given a chance of ending his existence on the battlefield._

 

She breathes in icy air, raises the shovel again and imagines that the piece of ice under her feet is a wight she needs to kill, and then slams it downward – it finally breaks, thank the gods, and she crouches down, throwing it outside. At least now after _four_ layers of ice she’s reached a piece of ground that’s not frozen over. Maybe she can make it deep enough now. He told her, _bury me deep because if I happen to wake up again I don’t want to come back in this world as a bloody wight_.

Since she couldn’t even die with him, she might as well pay him a last favor and bury him properly before she goes back to the castle and to their useless resistance. There’s no Stark left _here_ anymore, they’re all dead except for Bran who is – well, no one knows where he is, exactly.

(But he has talked to them through _trees_. This, she knows. She was here for it.) There is no king or queen – the dragons arrived, but too late.

 _Everyone_ was too late. The Wall fell a long time ago and she had only been here to bring Sansa Stark back where she belonged along with Jaime – she can feel the scar around her throat as sharply as she can remember her steel piercing through Lady Stoneheart’s chest, and then they stayed because there was nowhere else to go. She doesn’t know how many other people have survived, but –

They haven’t seen the sun in _two moons_.

They’re doomed, and there won’t be any new songs for the knights of summer, she thinks bitterly.

“I would ask if you needed help, my lady, but I fear that task is beyond me.”

Brienne looks up, to her left.

Well, _indeed_ Lord Connington would not be able to help her digging, not when his arm ends just under his elbow.

(Grayscale. He cut it off before it could spread, hoping it would buy him time to see Rhaegar Targaryen’s _other_ son on the Iron Throne.

Turns out, he outlived the lad.

Brienne understands how he feels, even too well.)

“Do not bother, my lord,” she shrugs. The weirwood tree looms above them and Brienne doesn’t even bother to glance at the red on its bark. “I am done with the worst part of it. But if you would be so kind to help me lower _him_ down when I am finished…”

“Of course. Anything to have something to do while waiting for our inevitable demise.”

At least, Brienne thinks, the few people left have taken their situation with the necessary irony.

Once she wouldn’t have appreciated it.

 _Seems like I’ve grown on you, wench_ , Jaime would have said –

She wipes away a few stray tears that were already threatening to freeze on her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she replies politely, and shovels away some more dirt.

\--

By the time it’s deep enough, her hands are full of red blisters but she can’t even feel them.

Not that it’s going to matter. Even if she lost her fingers to frostbite, it wouldn’t matter.

She climbs out of the hole, shovel in her hand, and turns towards the white sheet wrapped around the body laid next to the tree.

“I think,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady, “that if I get the shoulders –”

“Of course. I will take the feet.”

Gods. She does, and Lord Connington does the same, and a moment later she has let Jaime’s corpse fall into the grave. She put two coins on his eyes before wrapping it in the white sheet.

(He joked about dying in Kingsguard white, but she couldn’t bear to bury him in any other color.)

She’s not sure she believes in such things anymore, but it can’t have hurt, not that anyone needs gold dragons these days.

She says nothing as she shovels dirt back inside the grave again and she can only think, _no flowers will ever bloom here, will they?_

As she finishes, she considers just sticking Oathkeeper in the stead of a gravestone, but then again, it’s the only sword in the entire castle that can kill wights. And as hopeless as their survival is, she can’t quite bear to get rid of it yet. Instead, she picks _his_ sword from the ground, the one he used until he could hold one, and plants that instead in the cold, hard ground.

Lord Connington is still there.

When Brienne looks at him inquisitively, he shrugs. “He still was a knight of the Kingsguard. He probably deserved better send-off than this, and Aerys was not the Targaryen I cared for.”

Brienne hasn’t talked to the man more than a handful of times, and never in depth, but she thinks she could kiss him for that. But it wouldn’t mean anything, not now.

“I – I never was the best with words,” she says. “He deserved far better than this.” _He deserved far better than most of what he got, truth to be told_. “He was a far better man than most people assumed. He was – he was indeed reviled for his finest act, not that anyone but me knew. He tried his best. And he was the one person who ever thought for real that I had any merit at being a knight.” She thinks she might stop here, but when she looks over at Lord Connington, she sees that he looks… _understanding_?

And even if he wasn’t, does it even matter now?

“I loved him,” she sobs, wiping at her eyes. “And I know he didn’t believe in it, and I don’t know if I do, but I honestly hope he’s in a better place. May he rest in peace.”

She throws away the shovel and turns her back to the grave.

“I – I think I am done,” she says.

“I have seen worse funerals.”

“You must have seen many horrible things, my lord.”

“Too many, but it hardly matters now, doesn’t it? That said, having buried the man you loved isn’t something all of us can claim to have done for ourselves.”

He turns his back at her and heads back to the castle after that, and Brienne doesn’t run after him to ask, _who do you mean_.

He never said out loud, but it was obvious since they saw Aegon die and Brienne is hardly going to be the person berating him for loving someone he shouldn’t have, not when she’s done it herself _twice_.

\--

There’s not much talk around dinner, that evening. Not that there’s much of it lately. It’s about fifty people in the entire castle right now, and none of them are lords except for the two of them, it’s all Night’s Watch recruits – _all_ that’s left of the Night’s Watch, truth to be told.

Brienne doesn’t know _why_ they’re even pretending that this has a point, but she knows that it’s because they’re all scared shitless of what’s coming _after_. She eats her hard beef stew and thinks about the grave she’s left behind her, and curses her _exceedingly good health_ , or so the maester at Evenfall Hall used to say.

Later, she goes to sleep on the ground in the main hall – _all_ of them sleep there at this point – and goes to sleep not knowing if she should hope to wake up or not.

\--

 

_She’s standing in the snow, in front of a cave. She doesn’t know where it is or how she got here, but it’s cold. Cold in ways she had never imagined the world could feel, even in the chilliest of winters. The entrance is barely visible, but it’s also because there’s a blizzard all around – the air is freezing and she can barely see where she’s going._

_It’s night, but some stars are bright enough that something is visible. She heads for the cave, wanting for shelter, and then she hears a horse running by, straight in her direction –_

_She moves out of the way, but the horse trips against a tree root and the rider crashes on the ground, or better, he would have if Brienne hadn’t caught him._

_“My lady…?” Lord Connington asks her as she drags him to his feet._

_“My lord,” she answers, as courteous as she can manage. Then she looks down at him._

_He has both arms._

_It has to be a dream, hasn’t it?_  

_She feels for her neck. The rope burn is gone. She touches her cheek, and the scar is gone, too._

_If only it mattered now, and if only it were true._

_She nods towards the cave, and he follows her inside. It’s dark, too dark to see anything, but then her hand touches something that feels quite like a weirwood, and –_

_And –_  

You have to come _, an ethereal voice that she hasn’t ever heard in person but that she’s heard from a_ tree _says._ You both have to, now, _it repeats, and then her entire sight is filled with light and –_

 

\--

Brienne wakes up at once, cold sweat plastered all over her forehead. She looks towards the other side of the hall, and –

Yes. Lord Connington is also awake and doing the exact same as she is.

 _Well then_. She takes care to be silent as she stands up, takes her sword and heavy cloak, and walks towards the end of the hall where he’s already heading.

“We had the same dream, didn’t we?” Brienne whispers when they’re close enough to talk without disturbing the others.

“I suspect so. Or better – I woke up as I fell from my horse, but I remember I had both hands and I remember seeing you at the end of the road.”

“I – no. I started dreaming as soon as you fell from it. We walked into a nearby cave.” She takes a deep breath. “I heard Bran Stark’s voice.”

“How do you know?”

“I – I heard it before,” she chooses to reply. It’s the safest answer she has to give him. “It said – we _both_ had to go, but I don’t know _where_.”

“I do,” he answers. “I dreamed the way there.”

_He dreamed half of it, and I dreamed the other. It’s no coincidence._

“Shall we go?” He asks after a silence that lasts she doesn’t know how long.

“Mayhaps we’ll die on the way.” It sounds fairly likely. “But on the other side, what do we have left here?”

“… That is an extremely fair point, my lady. I think there are still a few horses left in the stables.”

“Then we’ll see to them. I – I will take my armor and I will be with you.”

“Do you wish to leave _now_?”

“Does it make any difference?”

“… It does not,” he agrees with a certain reluctance.

She knows he visits his son’s grave ( _prince Rhaegar’s_ , not his) every day, and that he might have wanted to see it once again, but –

But she had a sense of _urgency_ from her own dream, and the prospect of seeing _Jaime_ ’s grave while Lord Connington pays his last respects makes her want to throw up because she could barely stand its sight not even twelve hours ago.

“If you wish to visit the graveyard while I saddle the horses –”

“Thank you, but I think there’s no point in doing it. Not just now.”

“Are you sure?”

“It would just make things worse. I will meet you in the stables.”

It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to have this conversation anymore, not that Brienne can’t understand why, and so she goes to get her armor. She dons it easily, it’s not as if having a squire for a while (and she _won’t_ think about _that_ lest she loses it here and now, and she can’t afford it) has made her forget how to put it on without help. She checks that Oathkeeper is at her side ( _useless now, isn’t it_?), ties her cloak around her shoulders and leaves the corner she had claimed for herself in Winterfell’s former main hall.

No one even asks where she’s going, out of the few people who are still around.

She’s not surprised.

When she gets to the stables, they are empty save for her and Lord Connington. He has managed to saddle his own, and she provides to hers – she can see he’s _tired_ already, and doing it with half an arm missing can’t have helped.

She makes a quick work of it, and when she’s done she mounts on the mare. Lord Connington has done the same a short while ago and now he’s fixing his cloak around his shoulders, but it’s still not tied properly. Brienne wordlessly trots closer and helps him with it, resolutely _not_ thinking of when she did the same for Jaime not too long ago, and then leaves it be.

“Thank you,” he tells her. “Shall I lead the way?”

“I will follow,” she replies, and goes after him into the dark night.

She doesn’t spare a glance for the castle they’re leaving behind even if she knows it’s unlikely they’ll ever see it again.

\--

She has the distinct feeling that it should have taken _longer_.

Or maybe it’s because it’s always night and Brienne’s completely lost sense of time, which is the most likely explanation. They do stop a few times to catch a bit of sleep and eat what food they brought from Winterfell (not much, not when there are others in there who might not want to starve until it’s not something that can be delayed anymore), and no one stops them at what used to be the Wall – now, in place of Castle Black, there’s just rubble and the entire section of the Wall it manned is torn down.

“Was it much far from here?” Brienne asks as they ride on.

“In that dream, it looked – about a day’s ride,” Lord Connington tells her. “But I don’t know how long it would be, if we cannot count how long a day is anymore.”

They have two more portions of salt beef.

 _Just enough for a day’s ride_ , she thinks.

“Very well. Then we should move on.”

They leave the Wall behind as well.

It’s so cold that her hands have become numb.

 _If a White Walker showed up now, I don’t know if I could even hold that sword_ , she thinks, but then again, it’s highly unlikely it would happen. She has a feeling that if anything, they _will_ get as far as that cave.

She doesn’t even dare imagine what’s waiting for them inside, though she remembers the light and how rough the weirwood had felt under her fingers, and she remembers that _voice_ –

She shakes her head and rides on.

She almost wants to tell Lord Connington that she’s in awe of his resilience – not many people would have survived what he did and still be _here_ pushing through snow and hail and cold to reach… a _cave_ , but the words lay heavy on her tongue and she can’t manage to get her out.

She only ever got the hang of _teasing_ and speaking freely without thinking too much about it with one person only, and that person’s dead.

\--

“I think that’s all I recall,” Lord Connington says a while later, and – yes. Brienne recognizes the place. It’s all covered in snow, and they’re caught in a small blizzard that makes the sky look white and everything around them as well, but – but she thinks the rock on the side was something she had seen in her dream, wasn’t it?

She turns there and then her horse trips into _something_ and crashes to the ground – she jumps off it, and… there it is. The weirwood root.

Her mare’s leg is definitely broken, though.

Hells. She knows what she has to do, even if she’d rather _not_ , and it’s just the last item in a list of things she would rather _not_ do, but –

“My lord,” she says, “we should follow that root. And I should – please let your horse go.”

Lord Connington nods and dismounts, grabbing his meager pack from the horse and sending it on its way. Brienne doesn’t know how long it will survive or if killing him would have been kinder, but –

She brings out her sword.

 _I’m sorry_ , she thinks, and then lowers it downwards.

\--

The weirwood root brings them to a cave.

They look at each other before walking in – it’s dark, but they can see some light coming in from far ahead. She doesn’t know _how_ , because It’s about to turn dark outside, she knows it, but never mind it. They’ll find out, she supposes, and walks forward.

The clearing they reach is fairly large, and the light comes from a few small fires lightened in the corners of the cave. Dry leaves crack as she and Lord Connington walk over them, and for a moment she thinks, _there’s no one here_ , but then –

“Welcome, my lady. My lord, too,” a voice says, coming from the direction of the large weirwood tree standing in the middle of the cave, the one whose root they’ve been following until now.

Wait a moment –

There _is_ someone over there, sitting on a throne carved in the weirwood, unmoving legs touching its base, and she’s horrified at seeing that it’s a boy, not older than four and ten, with –

With white eyes and _the same hair as Lady Catelyn_.

And – is there a skeleton of a direwolf crouching at his feet?

“What –” Lord Connington says, but Brienne shakes her head. She thinks she knows _who_ this is.

“ _Bran Stark_?”

“Well-guessed, Lady Brienne,” Bran replies, tiredly, “though I’m _more_ than Bran Stark right now, all things considered.”

“ _More_ than?” Lord Connington asks.

“ _Three-eyed crow_ would be more accurate,” the boy says, “even though I wish I was not. However, this is not the reason why you’re both here.”

 _Three-eyed crow?_ Brienne heard a few wildlings talking about a mythical greenseer known as such, but she hadn’t realized –

That it might’ve been _him_. She clears her throat.

“You – you _called_ us?” Brienne asks, taking a step forward.

“I did,” Bran says. “You are both wondering why, I suppose, and it was because there is a way to – to undo _all_ of this.”

“ _This_?” Lord Connington asks. “You mean, the Long Night?”

“Not _that_ , sadly,” Bran says. “But you should be explained from the beginning.”

Brienne nods, even if looking at the boy is making her skin crawl – why the _white_ eyes? It’s just – it’s unnatural, and he’s _too young_ for this, whatever it is, and _why are roots growing through his legs_?

“You see, being what I am, it gives you… powerful greensight. It goes way beyond warging. It lets you see the past, and – and also the future, if you choose to do it. When I realized that the war was about to be lost, and now it _is_ … I might have done a few things that I was told were forbidden.”

“By whom?” Lord Connington asks. Good question.

“By the previous three-eyed crow. We can see the past. We are not supposed to _meddle_ with it, or worse, try to change it. However, I also happen to be more powerful than _he_ was, and who was going to stop me from looking into the future, too?”

He shrugs minutely, his tiny fingers grasping at the roots on the throne’s arm.

“I looked into a _lot_ of possible futures, to see if there was some way to prevent _this_ from happening. And I have reached a conclusion.”

“As in?” Brienne asks, feeling somewhat hopeful in spite of everything. After all, if there was nothing to be done about _this_ , then he wouldn’t have summoned them here somehow, right?

“As in, there is _one_ future where the White Walkers are defeated immediately, the Long Night is merely a passing shadow and we are spared most of the senseless deaths that came upon Westeros since Ned Stark died. But it’s not a future _I_ can try to turn into a reality,” Bran says with a long sigh.

“What – what do you mean?” Lord Connington doesn’t sound _too_ convinced, but he’s listening intently, or so it seems from his expression.

“That in order for us all to live, Aerys Targaryen _must_ die not sooner and not later than he did, but _Rhaegar_ must live,” Bran says tiredly, “along with Elia Martell and her children. Whether Lyanna Stark does or not is irrelevant, as long as all three children live and know they are the heads of the dragon. It’s no job for someone like me – I can only walk if I visit the past or the future, not if I want to live in it. How useless it is that one has such powers but then cannot even walk, isn’t it?”

“You – you mean to – _send us to the past_?” Brienne asks, barely audible.

“My lady,” Bran says, nodding, “it was, in truth, a turn of luck that the two of you did not perish. Because _you_ are two people who could turn that tide around. Yes, I mean to send you both to King’s Landing, _in the past_. It will be _before_ the Lord Connington of the past loses his position as Hand of the King, and the fact that _you_ , my lord, are here, will be your luck because _you_ only can convince _yourself_ to help the two of you, which should make you things plenty easier.”

“And – what it is that we should do, exactly?” Brienne asks.

“You have to make sure Rhaegar Targaryen doesn’t die, at the Trident or wherever else, _and_ that Ser Jaime _does_ replicate his previous feat,” Bran says.

“But – if Rhaegar wins the war,” Brienne protests, “why would he need to kill Aerys, or why would Aerys try to burn King’s Landing?”

“That’s for you to make sure of,” Bran says, sounding – _sorry_ about it? “He has to die. And Rhaegar has to live. And no one else would kill the Mad King, and we all know that.”

 _Of course_ , Brienne thinks, resigned. Jaime _was_ the only one who’d do it in the past, after all, so who would do it when the Targaryens actually might have _won_ the war?

“The moment both deeds are done, this new future will be set,” Bran goes on. “As for the two of you – if you both live to see those deeds accomplished, you have to go back at once to the place where you will find yourself at the beginning. There, if I am still here, which _should_ happen – I will bring you back to your future selves. In _that_ world.”

“Not – not in this one?” Connington asks.

“No. This future is done and over. There is nothing for either of us here. But if you live, you will find yourself in _that_ world, at the age you have right now. And I know that it won’t be one where the Long Night has prevailed.”

“If we live?” Brienne _had_ noticed that.

“You might die in the attempt,” Bran confirms. “If you do – you will be dead and another version of you will exist and go on in that future. But if you don’t die _there_ , you will die now for sure.”

Which is – a fairly valid point.

“So,” Connington says, “the lady should make sure Lannister kills Aerys and I should make sure Rhaegar doesn’t – doesn’t die?”

“Something,” Bran says, sounding somewhat sympathetic but at the same time detached in a way that makes Brienne’s skin crawl all over again, “tells me that it’s a task you would take extreme joy in performing, my lord. Wouldn’t you?”

“ _Of course_ ,” Connington says. “It’s – it’s everything I have wanted since I heard he died. I’m not so sure that the lady is so enthusiastic about her part.”

She laughs. Of course she’s not. The idea that she should somehow force Jaime into doing what he spent his life being loathed for when he’d have _no reason_ to do it is honestly abhorrent, but she can see they have no choices here, and –

And if she goes, she’ll see him again, though not the Jaime she knew and grew to admire and _love_ and whose loss still makes her feel like someone carved a hole into her heart and tore it out with enough force to rival the strongest whirlwind, and maybe she’ll find a way to make sure it doesn’t turn out sour, and Bran is right.

If they stay here, she dies for sure. If they go – maybe there’s a chance they’ll live.

 _And that Jaime will_ , she thinks, feeling like she could cry.

“I don’t relish it,” she says, “but I’ve always done my duty and I will do it again.”

 _Except that you would have let Stoneheart kill you for him. Are you sure you will be able to lie to him or force him into doing the one thing that ruined his life_?

She honestly hopes Bran cannot read thoughts, but he just looks at the two of them with a nod, his lips stretching in a thin smile.

“Very well. Then, I am ready whenever my lord and my lady wish.”

She looks at Connington, shrugging. “I don’t think we have any business to attend to _here_ now, do we?”

“No,” he agrees, “we don’t. I am ready now.”

“Then do come closer,” Bran says.

They do.

“I need the both of you to take one of my hands and touch the weirwood with the other. Lord Connington, for you is fine to just lean against it as long as you’re touching it somewhat.”

They both do, and Brienne shivers at how _cold_ Bran’s hand is.

What did he say before?

 _I am the three-eyed crow, even though I wish I was not_.

He’s _younger_ than four and ten, she thinks in anguish, and he’s talking with the voice of someone who’s lived for centuries.

Of course he doesn’t want _this_ future either, would he?

“My lord, my lady,” he says tiredly, “we won’t likely see each other again in this world, and I don’t know if _I_ will remember it in the new one. I kind of hope I don’t, but regardless, I hope you succeed and I wish you the best of luck. May we meet again in a better place.”

Brienne had figured she should say something, but suddenly Bran’s hand is burning hot rather than freezing cold, and she meets Connington’s eyes as her entire vision fills up with a blinding, white light and she feels like someone just punched her in the stomach with an iron gauntlet – Bran’s hand disappears from under hers and she immediately moves it to grip Oathkeeper’s hilt, feeling unreasonably reassured to find it still there and hoping it doesn’t disappear when she arrives in the past, because she couldn’t bear to live without the last thing she has left of _her_ Jaime, and then she closes her eyes before the white light completely blinds her and braces herself for what she has to do.

 _Of course she’ll do her duty_ , she thinks despairingly, but she knows –

She knows she will _hate_ every moment of it.

 

TBC


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Jon meets himself and Brienne is troubled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO here we are with part two (I'm going to try and update at least once per week, this month is going to be hell but I SWEAR I WILL). Sorry if it looks like I'm keeping you waiting but I swear this is the last of the set-up - the juicy stuff is starting from next time. (As in: this week is let's set the basics time, next time it's PLOT STARTS TO HAPPEN. Beware.) Aaand I missed writing JonC as a POV and it probably shows, sorry not sorry. See you next week when we're back with Brienne. *drops chapters and saunters vaguely downwards*

One moment, everything was _white_ , and Jon had felt like he was going to burn from the inside out as he closed his eyes, and _then_ –

He opens his eyes as he feels himself crashing down on hard ground, though at least it’s not cold and snowy – well, then _whatever_ Bran Stark did, it worked.

They’re _not_ too far from King’s Landing, he can see in the distance, and he’s not too surprised to find out his back is pressing against a weirwood tree.

He groans as he sits up. That _hurt_.

He also hears a feminine voice echoing him on the other side of the tree.

“My lady?” He asks. “Are you all right?”

“As well as one can be after crashing against a tree,” she replies, and he stands up, reaching her side of the tree. She’s also standing, her hand clenched around her sword, and she lets it go after a long moment. She wipes dirt from her very homely face and pulls her hair behind her head. He’s rarely seen her out in the daylight, when they met for the first time the Long Night was already long underway, and he hadn’t noticed exactly how still raw the scarring on her cheek is, nor how she looks dead tired and how the skin under her pretty blue eyes borders on purple.

He remembers how the few times she smiled in his presence were because of something Lannister said.

He doesn’t envy her _at all_.

“Very well,” he says, “then I think we must plan before taking any action. I don’t think there’s much room for error here.”

“No,” she agrees. “There’s arguably no room for error. And – _you_ were… here, I suppose, so I imagine you would have a better idea of how to proceed. How do we do this?”

No-nonsense – he likes her, as much as he’s ever going to like a woman, he thinks bitterly.

She has eyes too old for someone of nine and ten, he thinks.

“Bran Stark said he would send us here _before_ the Battle of the Bells – it has to be, otherwise I – well, you know, my younger self – wouldn’t still be Hand of the King and we’d be indeed fucked, pardon the language.”

“Don’t you worry, my lord, I’ve heard worse.”

“So, _whenever_ this is, it has to be before. _Before_ we lost it Aerys didn’t take the rebellion _that_ seriously, and of course Rhaegar is at the Tower of Joy.”

 _With Jon Snow’s mother_ , he doesn’t say.

“He didn’t come back before, but I had to be long gone from court by the time he was finally back.”

“Gods, this situation is already _not_ ideal, my lord.”

“How so?”

“If Aerys _was_ taking it seriously, he’d have probably raised less questions about you and I showing up at the Red Keep.”

“That’s true, but it’s nothing that can’t be solved. Especially because we all know that the Kingsguard is currently _not_ at the Red Keep in its entirety and that if Rhaegar comes he _will_ take all of them to battle, bar Lannister of course. And I’m afraid _that_ ’s where you should be, my lady.”

“I doubt Aerys will give out a white cloak to anyone who asks for one,” she sighs.

“Maybe not, but if you show that you’re capable he might agree to keep you around because he’d know the more skilled people around to protect him the better. He was mad, true, but not to the point of _refusing help_ , especially not right now. After the Battle of the Bells he might have, but now – I think it’s doable.”

“Very well. So I try to get into the Kingsguard or his service if the Kingsguard isn’t an option. Gods, to think that once I dreamed of it.”

“And now?”

“Now I’d do anything _not_ to, but what I want is not the point. And what about you?”

He sighs. “My role is a lot more complicated, I fear. Rhaegar is in Dorne. I have to find out _when_ exactly are we, because if I know how much time it is before the Battle of the Bells, maybe there’s half a chance we can avoid the fight on the Trident in the first place.”

“How exactly?”

He’s had a _lot_ of time, in these last years, to think about _where_ he went wrong when it came to that godforsaken blasted battle.

A _lot_ of it.

“Rhaegar wasn’t there, and it didn’t help. And I couldn’t find Robert Baratheon before Ned Stark came to his aid, and that was the end of it. The fact that I had to go for a retreat was what made me lose everything and made Rhaegar come back, and they fought on the Trident, and – well, we all know how _that_ went. It has to go differently. I need to make sure the Trident doesn’t happen _at all_.”

“My lord, that makes sense, but I think we should take something into account.”

“As in?”

“Bran Stark said that in the next future _he might not remember us_. And then he said that the world we came from _won’t exist anymore_ and that we should be quick to come back here after we’re sure the deed is done. I – if we want to be halfway sure we _will_ come back, I don’t think we can let happen anything that might turn into – the boy not having been born at all.”

 _Damn_ , that’s an excellent point, Jon has to concede.

“You mean, the war has to end in a pardon,” Jon says. “Or at least, Ned Stark has to live and he cannot lose the North.”

“My point exactly. I mean, if his sister lives then maybe he _would_ be pardoned, but we cannot leave that to chance.”

“No. That’s fair. Well, I _do_ know what happened at that battle, _now_. My – present-time self does not. But if – if we somehow manage to get Rhaegar to leave Dorne and ride to the Stoney Sept, and meanwhile convince him that a truce is the best way to solve this, maybe putting in the terms that his father needs to step down because no one wants him ruling – we could avoid the Trident altogether. That would be reasonable.”

“It would. After all, Arys _did_ kill Ned Stark’s father and brother in front of the Iron Throne, that’s enough of a reason to take arms,” she agrees. “There’s just one problem, though.” She sounds as if she wants to laugh so that she doesn’t break down in tears, but she eventually does not.

“Tell me. I have a feeling I know.”

“If Aerys has to _die_ and Jaime has to kill him and he’s nowhere near _that_ paranoid, and if _your_ side wins the battle or at least agrees to the truce and you come back finding the king dead, _how_ is that going to look for him?”

… That is a _very_ fair point.

“Not great,” Jon agrees. “And I can see it pains you greatly.”

She _does_ laugh at that, and wipes at her eyes at the same time. “My lord, killing Aerys ruined his life the first time around and at least he had a very good reason to do it and they couldn’t very well kill him for that, like this he’d _really_ risk to lose his head. And I _will_ do my duty, but I – I cannot convince him to do such a thing if I know it’ll cause him that much harm. Do you understand?”

Jon knows.

 _Gods_ , he knows.

“My lady,” he said, “believe me, I know everything about loving someone so much you couldn’t bear to think to be the reason they were harmed. I – it seems like this is my chance to undo it. I – I spoke to him a couple of times in Winterfell. He said that he only ever had a chance to try and be a better person because of you.”

“He was entirely underestimating himself.”

“Well, I can imagine why you don’t want to ruin his life now. But – we have to do it. And Bran Stark was imperative about it.”

“I know,” Brienne admits. “I – I suppose I will try to expose the wildfire plot. I’m sure it already had to be underway. Maybe there _is_ half a chance it might come out in the open and then maybe it wouldn’t be _so_ unreasonable.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Jon agrees, even if he _knows_ it’s nowhere near enough. Still, it’s something. “Try and do that. That said – for what it’s worth, I swear that if I can think of _anything_ that might let him off the hook, I will try to make it happen.”

“Thank you,” she replies, and she _does_ look truly grateful. “I – I will try to do the same. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you have the chance to, well, save the man you did love.”

“… Did you guess or did I tell somehow?” Jon asks, not even feeling surprised.

“My lord, I – I saw you as you watched _both_ of the prince’s sons die. It would have taken someone utterly daft to not guess who that person was.”

“And that doesn’t – cause you distress?” He’s kind of curious, if anything because _who_ else has he ever told? Not many people. Actually, _no one_.

She laughs. “My lord, have you looked at me? I used to love _Renly Baratheon_ , who I am told had your exact same preferences when it came to _who he loved_ , and no one ever saw me as someone worth to be with until Jaime, do you think I could ever berate you because you’re still in love with a man? I am as well, and I don’t really think judging you for it is what anyone of us needs or wants, anyway.”

He doesn’t want to say it sounds relieving to hear it, but –

It _does_ , if anything because he knows she understands and she knows _he_ does, and he entirely means it when he says he’ll try to find a way to let Lannister off the hook.

Hopefully he will.

“Then – well, my lady, all you have to do is stay in the Kingsguard, keep an eye on Lannister, try to keep the situation under control and make sure Aerys dies. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll deal with Rhaegar. Now we only need to actually get a foot inside the door, so to speak.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

Jon smiles. It’s not a happy smile.

“Come with. We need to find the inn where _I_ used to go for drinks when I was Hand and didn’t feel like hanging around the castle.”

“You mean –”

“I mean, we’ve got to meet _myself_ and we have to do it as soon as possible.”

\--

It takes them little to get into the city, the tree was not far from the gates, and they’re let in without much of a problem – Aerys still hasn’t turned _so_ paranoid to question anyone who’d enter or to put soldiers at every corner.

He pulls his hood upwards as he thinks about how many chances he has to be recognized if he doesn’t dye his hair or does something drastic to alter his appearance. He doesn’t think it’s very likely, the Long Night _did_ take a toll on him and he looks plenty older than he actually is, his hair is more silver than red at this point and he _doesn’t have half an arm_. Still he should probably ask Brienne when she sees him and his counterpart next to each other.

He also doesn’t even know what in the Seven Hells he’ll tell _himself_ except _either you listen to me or we’re both dead and Rhaegar is, too_ , but he doubts that it would work.

No, that wouldn’t work indeed. He needs to convince _himself_ of his intentions and of why they’re here, he needs to convince him to help them and to follow his damned plan, and given that back then he was young, stupid and sure that the Rebellion could be won that easily and way, _way_ over in his head…

Well, no point in being negative _before_ even taking a good view at the situation.

 _Would I have heard myself out back in the day_ , he thinks, and then figures that he’ll find out soon. It’s not too hard to find the tavern he used to frequent back in the day, though he _didn’t_ come here too often – he hopes this is one of those days or it’d be a problem to find _himself_ inside the Red Keep now, wouldn’t it?

They walk in and they take a seat, then he orders some ale – good thing he _did_ have a few coins with when he left Winterfell.

He takes a sip, then waits.

“Did you use to come here to eat?” Brienne asks.

“Sometimes, when I needed to _not_ be in the castle. Aerys wasn’t easy to handle even when he wasn’t at his worst. It’s about midday, though – a bit earlier than I used to get my food.”

“So we should just wait?”

“For a while. Would you care to entertain me?”

“I might, but I never was good at _entertaining_ , my lord.”

“You could tell me how _you_ and Jaime Lannister ended up liking each other that much,” he says, shrugging – he’s kind of curious, and they do have time to kill.

She laughs. “It’s a long story.”

“We do have time,” Jon says, and listens to her as she tells him – by the time she’s told him about the man jumping into a bear pit to save her life and coming back for her when she thought she was done fore, he thinks he can imagine _why_ she’s so loathe to cause the man any ill.

Gods, he does hope he can come up with _some_ way to make sure she doesn’t have to, or that _she_ does if he can’t.

He thinks of how Lannister was when Jon was hand, as in, _now._ Much too young,

( _same as for him, maybe_ )

brimming with something that might have been anger but which he kept carefully under control, with green eyes too old for his age and obviously regretting the moment he accepted that white cloak.

Same as _he_ always regretted accepting that golden hand-shaped pin.

“He said he _dreamed of you_? Sounds romantic,” Jon says, taking another sip from his ale.

“That – well. Thinking about it now, it did,” she replies, blushing ever so slightly.

She’s _nine and ten_ , he thinks.

She’s much too young for this, too, but it’s not as if they can do anything about it now, can they?

And then, the door opens. Jon glances at the man coming inside, and –

This is apparently _somewhat_ their lucky day, because _he_ is walking in. Well, not _him_. His past self. Jon looks with envy at his two hands for a moment, at how tall he’s carrying himself and at the bright red of his hair. The pin is hidden under the cloak, of course.

“My lady,” he says, “would _anyone_ think it suspicious if they saw us next to each other?”

“You mean, would people understand you’re the same person? Not at first glance,” she replies immediately.

“Good enough. Wait until I – he takes a seat, then follow me.”

She nods and finishes her drink, and he stands up, going straight to the table where _he_ is sitting.

“What –” His past self says as Jon takes a seat, Brienne next to him. He looks straight at the two of them – _gods_ , Jon thinks, _how young and proud was I ever_.

“My lord,” he says, wanting to laugh, “the lady and I have urgent need to talk to you.”

“ _Urgent need_ – you know that audiences exist? And who would you be?”

Jon snorts, and drags down the hood covering his cloak. “As far-fetched as it might sound, my lord, you’re talking to yourself.”

\--

Of course, _his_ first reaction is standing up and try to leave, but Brienne immediately stands up herself and moves sitting next to him, effectively blocking his way out.

“I don’t know who in the Seven Hells you are,” his past self says, obviously not buying it, “but if you’re playing some kind of jape –”

Jon sighs and moves his only elbow forward, lowering his voice.

“My lord, I’d like for you to look at me in the eyes while I tell you a couple of things about _ourselves_ that no one else could possibly know.”

“I refuse –”

“The first time you noticed women weren’t as beautiful or enthralling as songs might make them sound like, you were one and ten. It was the son of Griffin’s Roost’s handsmith. He was taller, older, maybe six and ten, he used to apprentice with his father and he often walked around without a shirt. Sometimes you’d catch yourself staring and thinking _that_ looked more attractive to you than a woman’s bosom ever would. His name was Edric. Sometimes he looked at you and called you _m’lord_ and you wished he wouldn’t.”

Immediately, _his own_ younger face goes pale.

“ _How_ do you know?”

Jon ignores that and goes on. “The first time you saw Prince Rhaegar in the flesh, you felt the way knights in songs are always described to feel when they meet their lady. You had _never_ laid eyes on someone who made your heartbeat double its speed, and you were thinking about kissing him for the entire three hours following your first meeting.” He lowers his voice once again. “You never laid with a woman, but you laid with a few men in a few discreet whorehouses. The first was blonde with blue eyes that looked violet in the right light. It was the worst half hour of your life.”

“ _How_ –”

“It was easier with the ones who didn’t look like _him_. And, _before_ the prince left for Dorne –”

“ _How_ do you know he is –”

“Please, everyone in court knew, first of all _the Hand of the King_ , he came to your castle and he told you to _never_ do whatever his father asked of you, which you did _not_ do, anyway, because you thought that if you were Hand you could help him better whatever madness Rhaegar had thrown himself into, and he kissed you before he left, and you’re still wondering if he meant it, if it was merely to thank you for your service, or if he _understood_ and it was somehow out of pity. Now _look at me again_ , and tell me that I can’t know that _because I lived through it,_ too.”

He sees his past self openly swallowing and finally _look_ at him, and he can see the moment when he recognizes his own eyes staring back at him, because his own, younger face turns pale and his lip trembles and then _he_ notices what’s of Jon’s arm.

“What – _how_? And what happened to –”

“To my hand? Grayscale,” Jon cuts him off. “Don’t worry, I didn’t want to let it spread. That’s why I don’t have the damned arm. As for _how_ I’m here and _when_ I come from, well, that’s why we have urgent need to talk to you.”

“Fine. What’s the _urgent need_?”

“Averting the end of the world as you know it,” Jon says. “Rhaegar _did_ talk to you about the Long Night.”

“Of course.”

“You _do_ know everything he’s doing is to prevent it.”

“Well, _you_ would know, if you’re _me_.”

“Exactly. I _know_. And what I can tell you is that _when_ I come from, it’s all for nothing.”

“It’s – _for nothing_?”

“The White Walkers won. Most people are dead. Including him and his family. We’re here because – ever heard of the Three-Eyed crow?”

“What? That legendary greenseer beyond the Wall? That’s a fairytale.”

“It’s not. He sent here the lady and I in order to avoid what’s to come. Now, listen to me – if things go the way they did where we come from, Rhaegar dies before the year is over and the war is lost.”

“You’re lying –”

“I’m _you_ , do you think I would _ever_ lie when it comes to Rhaegar?”

They stare at each other – Jon doesn’t have anything to hide concerning this, not anymore, and he doesn’t know for how long they do, but he eventually wins out, because at some point his younger self’s hand slightly trembles as he grasps at the table.

“He – he does?” He finally asks, in a thin, sad voice.

“Yes. And he must live. Not just because you and I obviously want him to, but also because it’s fundamental to everyone’s bloody survival.”

“Fine. What happened, where _you_ come from? And who is the lady anyway?”

“My name is Brienne,” she says. “Brienne of Tarth. You wouldn’t know of me in your time.”

“What happens,” Jon goes on, “is that Robert hides at the Stoney Sept, the villagers don’t hand him over when you go there and try to fish him out, Ned Stark arrives with reinforces and forces you to retreat and they pretty much win that battle. Aerys sends you – _us_ , in exile after stripping us of everything for having failed to handle them, Rhaegar comes back from Dorne to fight them and Robert kills him on the Trident. Meanwhile – my lady, you might want to refer this part of the story.”

“Meanwhile Aerys was planning to blow up King’s Landing with wildfire so that the rebels wouldn’t take it and Ser Jaime killed him before he could do it, but no one even thought to ask him why he did it, and the princess and the children were killed on his father’s orders which he didn’t know about.”

“Well,” Jon says, “Aegon is saved and Varys then comes to find _you_ , or me, or _us_ , in the tavern in Essos where we’re drinking our sorrows after joining the Golden Company and hands him over saying that _we_ should raise him so he could take his father’s throne. _That_ did not come to pass, since he died during the long night along with Lyanna Stark’s son, too.”

He must have sounded dead serious, because he doesn’t get questioned.

“And how did you get – grayscale?”

“A misadventure in Essos. That’s not the problem. The problem is, we need to stop this.”

“Do you know how?”

“We were told that Rhaegar must live but Aerys must die the way he did where we came from. And this is where everything goes to the Seven Hells if you don’t help us out.”

 _Come on,_ Jon thinks as he looks at _himself_ pondering it, _I know I was an arrogant know-it-all who thought he could reach too high, but I know I wasn’t an idiot then and I’m not now_.

For a long moment, no one speaks. Then –

“How am I supposed to help you out? I mean, this is _mad_ and I wish I could afford to call you a madman and give the both of you to the City Watch. It makes no sense. It’s not possible. But, but – no one but _me_ could know.”

“About what?”

“About that kiss. Or the blacksmith’s apprentice. I never – I never told –”

“I know. Because I never told anyone either,” Jon goes on, “and you have seen me. You _know_ I’m telling the truth. So, are you going to help us out or will you let Rhaegar die and turn _the entire world_ into a wasteland for the dead?”

Nothing is said for a long moment, and then –

“Well, if you’re _right_ about this, then I won’t get exiled, I suppose. Fine. How do I help you? Tell me.”

 _Good gods, finally_.

“Rhaegar must be at the Stoney Sept,” Jon says. “He can’t stay in Dorne as long as he did. And when we’re there we need to make a truce.”

“The king –”

“Never mind bloody Aerys,” Jon hisses, “the situation must be negotiated and Ned Stark _must_ live at all costs since _his son_ sent us back here and if Stark dies we don’t know if our staying here might be mucked up. Never mind that they rebelled only because Aerys burned alive Stark’s father and brother. How many Kingsguard are in the castle?”

His younger counterpart thinks for a moment. “Lannister,” he says. “Then Whent and Darry, I think.”

Jon sees Brienne cringing without saying nothing.

Three people, and only _one_ of them guarding the king.

“Well, one of them at least need to go fetch Rhaegar and the others and tell him to go to the Stoney Sept immediately and – to do _something_ about Lyanna Stark because she can’t stay there.”

“Why can’t she?”

“Because where we come from, if she has her baby _there_ , she dies,” Brienne interrupts.

“Wait, her _baby_? Oh, gods – all right. Fine, though I suppose that will take longer to arrange. Gods, the Stoney Sept – I was going to head there shortly.”

“ _When_ were you supposed to go there?”

“In a couple of weeks at most. We did get messages that Robert might be hiding there, but –”

“Postpone it. Rhaegar _must_ be there and we _must_ convince him to be reasonable. Or _you_ have to, since he would probably recognize me at some point if he saw the two of us next for each other for too long. The rebels _will_ accept a truce if it includes Aerys stepping down and Rhaegar becoming king.”

His counterpart takes it in and nods wearily. “I guess it can be arranged somehow. Fine. I’m going to try. What else?”

“You need to get the lady a place on the Kingsguard.”

\--

Jon almost wants to laugh at _his_ own younger face twisting in complete shock.

Almost.

“What – a _woman_ in the Kingsguard? It’s completely bloody unheard of. I couldn’t find any reason to –”

“My lord,” Brienne says, her voice low, calm and absolutely steady. “Look down here.”

She brings her sword out of the sheath enough to make _him_ realize that it’s Valyrian Steel.

“ _How_? Valyrian steel is the rarest there is, how do you have –”

“It used to be Ned Stark’s sword,” she said, “before he died and it was reforged. Ser Jaime gave it to me back in – in my time. It should have been red and gold, it’s red and black. The king might take it as a sign, since it looks like it was forged for a Targaryen. And I will be glad to fight the best the Kingsguard has to offer for a place in it. Or whatever it takes you to get me there.”

“Why do you need to be part of it so much?”

“My lord,” Brienne says, “Rhaegar must live and _Aerys must die_ , and if Lord Jon here is in charge of saving Rhaegar’s life, _I_ must make sure of his father’s death. And what other excuse might I have to be around the castle? Just present me as someone who wants to do their duty for the realm.”

“And _could_ you beat Arthur Dayne?”

“I know Ser Dayne’s not here, but I would certainly be glad to try if he were.”

She stares him down and _finally_ they get a shrug of acceptance.

“Fine. You look like you could beat at least half of the others, for what it’s worth,” he says, “I will try, but I cannot guarantee anything. What I know is that the both of you cannot come to court like this.”

“What?” Brienne asks.

“Your clothes are old, you both need a bath and Aerys doesn’t react well to people he doesn’t take _seriously_ these days.” He sighs, searches for something in his pockets and then hands Jon a small bag of silver. “Buy yourself some clothes and take a bath at the nearest inn. Come to the castle tomorrow morning – it will give me time to find a story to introduce the two of you halfway convincingly. I wouldn’t be doing this if – if you didn’t know something _no one else could_ , and if you tell me Rhaegar dies – I can’t let it happen.” He stops, breathes in, looks at the two of them again with the face of someone who cannot even conceive such a thing, and Jon wants to laugh bitterly, because back then –

 _He hadn’t conceived such a thing either_ , did he?

“ _You_ should remember how things are at the Red Keep,” he tells Jon, ignoring Brienne for the moment. “Make sure she does, too. Show up dressed properly.”

“We will,” Jon says, “and thank you.”

“Well, we shall see,” he sighs. “Hopefully he doesn’t exile me because he thinks _I_ turned mad.”

\--

“Should I try to find an armor?” Brienne asks him later as they head out of the inn where they booked a room.

“It’s not worth it,” he tells her. “If you’re accepted in the Kingsguard, you’ll be given a white one. If not, you still would need something better than what you’d get for little here. Just try to find something that fits you and that doesn’t look like you cobbled it together, or he’ll think you’re not worth his time. For that matter, just don’t contradict him on anything when we’re there – you’ll be better off for it. And keep your mouth shut even if you see something you don’t like, or we’ll be done.”

She nods, not looking like she’s enjoying carrying out this task in the slightest – of course she wouldn’t, it’s obvious that she doesn’t appreciate the task, and he can imagine since he doubts they’ll have much luck finding clothes that fit her. They find a shop that seems to sell clothing that’s not dubious quality, good thing that, and he goes through a few stacks of clothes cursing the fact that he only has one arm to do it.

He should definitely avoid anything white or red, his younger self will obviously wear his colors and he doesn’t want to make anyone notice that they might look a bit too similar. He doesn’t even know how he’s going to be introduced as, though he has a feeling that if they have to justify his lack of an arm and he knows himself it’s going to be either former soldier or mercenary, which means he should pick a damned neutral color rather than anything that might remind anyone of house sigils. In the end, he picks an honest dark green breeches and tunic that thankfully come together, don’t have holes in them, don’t look too peasant-like and most of all, that should fit him. He pays for it without trying it on – one-armed it’d be too complicated and long and at worst he can ask one of the inn’s maids to fix it for him.

Jon turns back to check on what Brienne’s doing.

He finds her staring at another pair of breeches and tunic – it’s all blue, though. A _nice_ shade of blue. She’s running her fingers over it as she checks the measures; they’re both large, so they should fit her fine.

She looks like she’s about to cry, though.

“What – what is the matter?” He asks.

“Nothing,” she answers. “He just – he always said blue was my color,” she replies softly, and then she folds the clothes and nods. “I’m taking these.”

“And I’m taking these ones. Hold them, I’ll pay.”

She does, and they head back to the inn. She’s clutching both sets of clothes to her chest, so hard her knuckles are _white_.

Jon isn’t sure if he wants to know what she’s thinking, and so he doesn’t ask.

\--

They do take that bath. He doesn’t shave – his younger self _does_ , and he’ll keep anything that makes them obviously different – but he eventually asks Brienne to help him trim the damned beard and hair so he doesn’t look too much like someone who hasn’t done it in three moons.

Which he hasn’t.

She does without even batting an eyelid, moving her knife efficiently and without losing too much time, and she doesn’t make him bleed once.

“Do I have to ask you how you’re so good at this?” He asks after she’s done.

“Can’t you imagine?”

“I think I can,” he replies.

“Shaving without your right hand might prove complicated at times,” she says, leaving it at that. He turns his back on her while she tries on her clothes – he can’t believe that they’ve been so lucky, but they all fit her and they don’t need adjustments.

Thing is – Jon’s never even looked at a woman the way most men do, and he’s certainly not looking at _her_ like that, but he can look at them _objectively_ , and he can see what Lannister’s point was. It does look good on her, more than the dirty Stark gray of her previous outfit, and it _does_ match her eyes.

“Those clothes go well with your eyes, if that’s what you’d like to know,” he tells her.

“That’s what _he_ used to say,” she sighs, smiling ever so slightly, but still sounding _sad_. “Gods,” she goes on, “I cannot believe I’ll see him tomorrow and he won’t know – anything, I guess.”

“Think that at least in _this_ world he’ll never even catch pneumonia, if we make good of our quest.”

“ _If_ we do,” she agrees, but then says nothing more and proceeds to take off the clothes.

Jon turns her back on her again.

\--

They sleep for long enough – both of them know that they won’t have much of it in the next few days. They go downstairs to eat. They don the clothes when they go back upstairs, not looking at each other as they try them on – Brienne helps him with the clasp at his cloak and with a few laces, he can’t help her with anything but watches her put her sword back where it belongs and looking a tiny bit relieved as it’s finally back at her waist, and he thinks, _she does look like a knight_.

Now if only she looks like one to Aerys, as well, they would already have done a good part of the job here.

“So,” he tells her as the afternoon sun slowly lowers itself towards the horizon line, “are we going?”

“I imagine we should,” she says. “My lord, do go first.”

“All things considered, I think we can do away with the formalities, if you’d like.”

“I would,” she agrees. “It does make no sense. Well – _Jon_ , do go first.”

“ _Brienne_ , thank you.”

She closes the door behind them and they head down the stairs, walking out in the street. The Red Keep is not that far.

He hasn’t seen it in years. He doesn’t know if he missed it – he most probably did _not_ , even if he missed _who_ was in it.

But there’s no Rhaegar here now, is he?

 _No_ , he thinks, _but I’ll see him again soon, hopefully not in that bloody godsforsaken castle, and if I get to save his life this time around then I don’t care what happens to me_ , and good thing _that_ is something he and his younger, luckier and less weary self will always agree about.

“Are you ready?” He asks her.

“No,” she says, truthfully. “But I don’t think I ever could be, and we have to do this, so we better be going. And – for what it’s worth, I hope you get to save your prince, out of the two of us.”

“Thank you,” he replies, meaning it entirely. “And even if it looks dire, I hope you get to do the same regardless of the odds.”

She smiles for a moment, and it’s a very sad kind of, but it’s better than the grim expression she’s had since they arrived here.

Well then –

Time to go.

They walk forward, with the Red Keep and his younger self and Aerys and a Jaime Lannister that has no idea of what’s in store for him _now_ or in the far future looming in the distance, and he hopes with all his might that this time round, things turn out for the best.

He really, _really_ does.

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested 90% of the stuff JonC1 tells JonC2 to convince him they're the same person is headcanons I had thrown into [the first time I wrote that ship](https://archiveofourown.org/works/314420) which was basically just how I figured it might have gone sticking to canon, but yeah. /o\ *saunters vaguely downwards again*


	3. Brienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Brienne dons a white armor, meets Jaime again and finds out about her ancestry.
> 
> It sounds better than it actually is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I said once per week.
> 
> I KNOW. RL fucked me over guys SORRY is2g I'll try to keep to the schedule for now but hey at least you got an extra-long chapter to make up for lost time? /o\ anyway, OKAY SO, PLOT IS BEGINNING, have fun. Sorry for the ridiculous amount of angst in this thing. I swear it does get better eventually. *Eventually*. Also hey Jaime's finally here, at last. Too bad he's having a shitty time, I guess. Anyway, I'll leave this here and saunter back downwards, sorry again for the delay updating this and see you all next week, hopefully for real this time.

They’re halfway there to the Red Keep when Brienne realizes something she should have thought of _a long_ time ago, before proposing to actually use the Valyrian sword to convince Aerys to take her on.

“Damn,” she whispers, “I think we might have a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“This sword is _Valyrian steel_ and I did say it looks Targaryen, but it has a _Lannister_ handle. Wouldn’t it raise a few questions? I’m sorry, I didn’t think of it before.”

“… We _do_ have a problem, damn it,” Jon sighs, sounding like he’s already so tired he could go to sleep for the next six moons. “But I don’t think it’s unsolvable. When we get there, we just take the other _me_ on the side, tell him to hide it in his rooms and then he can give it back to you after you’re hopefully taken on. That said, _hide it_ , because you don’t want anyone to find that out of everything. Then we can find an excuse or replace that damned handle before you bring it out in the open, if you have need to.”

“Of course.” She nods, and her hand goes back to the sword’s handle at once. It’s probably obvious that she’s nervous.

 _Very_ nervous. She’d know. She wants to throw up for how nervous she is.

“Sorry about it,” he tells her, “but –”

“I know,” she interrupts him. “It’s just – I don’t have anything else left of _him_.”

“Look at the bright side,” he says, obviously trying to lighten up the situation without quite managing. “At least you’re going to see him in the flesh sooner than I’ll see Rhaegar.”

“True,” she has to agree, but –

There are things Jon doesn’t know, she thinks.

She _will_ see him in the flesh, and it won’t be the man she knew, but thing is, they _did_ talk to each other, in the last months before – _before he died_.

The person they’re going to meet definitely won’t be the man she loved, but he also won’t be the one she met while barely free of Riverrun’s dungeons.

It’ll be –

 _Can you believe it,_ Jaime had told her, _that I wanted to be like Arthur Dayne, back then_?

Brienne can entirely believe it.

What she doesn’t like, is knowing _she_ will have to be the reason why he turns up to _not_ be that person this time around.

She lets Oathkeeper’s handle go lest it starts hurting for how strong her grip is becoming, and she falls into step with Jon, and she tells herself, _don’t fuck it up and don’t even try to let it show how much you wish Aerys Targaryen had dropped dead long before Jaime had to kill him_.

\--

Unsurprisingly, present-time Jon is _not_ too happy about the delay, but they’re earlier than they should have been, or so it seems, and so he quickly ushers them both into his room, grabs Oathkeeper, hides it under the bed’s mattress and then drags Brienne over to the armory where she picks the most suited sword she can find at short notice. Then they all head back towards the throne room.

“All right,” Jon – _present_ - _time_ , of course, not the one standing at her left – says, keeping his voice low, “now you two listen to me carefully. _You_ , as in, _me_ , but – well, we all understood – you’re a former Golden Company mercenary. You wish to fight for us, and you have happened to get off your ship in White Harbor, not _here_ , which means that you have tactical information that we will sorely need for our upcoming battle with the rebels where we’ll hopefully get rid of them, as far as Aerys is concerned anyhow. Just tell him whatever you told me or whatever is Ned Stark planning to do, then say that you absolutely need to go with us to make sure Rhaegar is properly warned or whatever. He might hear you out, you know me as well as I do if not better. Just sound like you mean it.”

“Understood,” Jon says, sounding satisfied, but then again it’s a sound plan and he _was_ with the Golden Company a while, so he should be able to sound at least convincing.

“As far as the lady’s concerned,” present-time Jon goes on, “you don’t even want to know the amount of sleep I lost to find some way to justify her presence. I’m not even too sure of that story, but –”

“A moment,” Brienne says, stopping dead in her tracks and staring at the shield hung on the wall in front of which they’re passing.

“We don’t have much time –”

“I _know_ , but _whose_ sigil is that? On _that_ shield.”

“The white tree with the star? It was Ser Duncan’s. Duncan the Tall. Commander of the Kingsguard during Aegon V’s reign. Why?”

Brienne stares at the shield, swallows, then turns and looks back down at the other man.

“I know who he is. Everyone does. But – that’s – see, there was one just like it _in Evenfall’s armory._ In Tarth. When I was a young girl. I had my shield decorated like that as well when I was on a quest Ser Jaime sent me on in my time, I did it so people wouldn’t recognize me and I figured it was as good as any.”

Both men suddenly stop in their tracks and look at _her_ before looking at each other.

“And you _didn’t_ know who it belonged to?”

“Until now? No,” she tells the Jon who came with her.

“ _Well_ ,” present-Jon says, eyeing her, “as far as we all know and as far as everyone who knew him remembers, Duncan _was_ admittedly… _very_ tall. Hells, he was _named_ like that. And well-built. And blonde. And he was an exceptional knight indeed.” He seems to think for a moment.

“Are you thinking what _I_ am thinking?” His future counterpart asks.

“Given that I’m _you_ , I have a feeling I do. My lady,” Jon says, “how likely it is that _your_ shield was in the armory because Ser Duncan ever visited your fair island for a considerable amount of time, or maybe a son of his?”

“I – I have no idea,” she says, honestly. “It wasn’t a family story or anything of the kind. As far as I know my grandmother on my mother’s side _wasn’t_ from a noble family, she might have even been a commoner, but no one actually knew for sure, so –”

“Seems to me that Ser Duncan _might_ be related to you, my lady.”

“ _Sorry_?”

“Never mind that. Even if he _wasn’t_ , he might as well be, and it might be your stroke of luck. Surely you look like you could be related. So… never mind the story I had in mind. _You_ , Lady Brienne, will walk in that room giving Aerys another name and saying that Duncan was your great-grandfather or _something_ of the kind and that you’re a commoner, because if you were nine and ten in… 303, you surely were born already at this point, and who knows if someone keeps track of who’s born on Tarth or who isn’t. You can’t risk anyone finding out you have a newborn double out there. You will say you were brought up hearing stories of his deeds and so on, and that you inherited his prowess, which wouldn’t even be a lie if you’re as good as you look like. And then you’ll ask for a place in the Kingsguard same as your grandfather because same as _him_ , you want to protect the rightful Targaryen king. Most likely you’ll have to fight a Kingsguard knight if not all of the ones who are here, which would be Lannister and Whent – Darry’s left on some errand on the king’s account and won’t be back for a few days. Certainly not Dayne, who’s with Rhaegar. Understood?”

“Understood,” she says, wishing she actually had some time to take in the information that _her great-grandfather was most likely a commander in the Kingsguard_ and she hadn’t known that until this very moment, never mind that she had no idea about where that shield came in the first place.

And of course, she’ll need a new name.

 _Damn it_. She thinks they have a few minutes left until they reach the throne room – the Red Keep is _large_. Given that from what she knows of Ser Duncan he traveled all along the Seven Kingdoms, she could be from _anywhere_ , but – she’s not really a great liar, is she. _Storm_ will have to do. At least she won’t have to lie when discussing where she comes from.

About the name –

If she’s supposed to come from a family where it was _known_ who her ancestor was, she should be named accordingly. Certainly, not after a queen or anything of the kind. She racks her memory, trying to remember if she ever read of _any_ woman in the songs concerning Duncan, and she heard enough of those, and read enough of his adventures, too – the man _was_ famous and she _had_ devoured those books, back in the day.

Didn’t he run into a beautiful noblewoman who offered him a place in her guard? Brienne thinks he did. She _thinks_ the woman was Lady Rohanne Webber.

She _thinks_ , and if she were, it’d be likely that her commoner family might have named her like that in honor of their illustrious ancestor, but it’s going to have to work either way, because they’re right in front of the door, and present-Jon is asking for permission to be allowed inside, and gods _Jaime is behind that door_ , and Aerys Targaryen is, too, and she kind of wants to faint, but –

No.

No, she won’t.

She stops. She waits until the door is open and she’s told to come forward.

Gods, she’s _so_ not ready for this, but it doesn’t matter, not when the fate of the entire continent is resting on her shoulders.

\--

At the beginning, she doesn’t even dare glancing anywhere but at Aerys, and she can’t help thinking, _if this is how he looked like when he wasn’t at his worst I cannot imagine what his worst was_ , because – maybe it’s what she knows. Maybe it’s that she feels cold creep along her spine. But the man looks _already_ beyond mad, with his silver hair and violet eyes and lips set in a cruel, tight line, looking down at all of them as if he could annihilate them with merely a thought, and maybe he _might_ at this point. She glances at his hands as he kneels. They’re grasping the throne’s handles. His nails aren’t _too_ long, but they’re longer than they should be. She doesn’t even dare _not_ raise until she’s told to.

She keeps her eyes down as the Hand of the King is told to stand and as Jon is told to stand, too.

He does, next to her. She _does_ listen to him introduce himself as Roland Storm, former Golden Company captain, who lost his arm during his last fight and who had sailed to White Harbor so he could go back home after spending some time with some old friends from his mercenary days without knowing that the North was rebelling, and who had heard enough of Ned Stark’s plans on the way South to be sure that the King might want to hear them, as well.

“Interesting,” the king says, and his voice makes Brienne’s skin crawl. “Do go ahead.”

She _does_ want to pay attention to the conversation.

She does.

But then her eyes catch the white cloak on the King’s right side.

No one is paying attention to her.

She glances at the person on the left. She definitely doesn’t know _him_. Must be Ser Whent.

The one on the right, though –

Gods.

It’s _him_.

He’s _all_ clad in white, and same as when he was older, he looks all the more handsome for it, Brienne thinks. He has longer hair, and he’s completely shaved, and he’s standing fairly still with a hand on his sword and his back held up straight.

Honestly, he looks like a drawing out of a book, she thinks, that is, until she glances at his eyes.

He _did_ tell her, that since Rickard and Brandon Stark died in front of him, he really did not pay attention to his surroundings whenever he had to stand through Aerys’s summons.

But –

She can see that he’s _not_ with them, not even close. He’s staring at someplace under the throne, his eyes completely unfocused, not the bright green she remembers it being, and for a moment she feels like throwing up, but –

No.

No, she _won’t_.

She forces herself to listen to what’s been said.

“ – so, if I may give my humble opinion…” Jon is saying.

“Give it already,” Aerys says, still sounding _very_ cautious.

“I think, knowing that Baratheon is hiding in the Stoney Sept and that Stark _will_ come to his aid before the moon turns, it would be beneficial if we contacted Prince Rhaegar and warn him that he should head there before they can be aware of it, so that the rebels might be captured and tried as His Grace sees fit, and this whole matter be closed shortly and swiftly.”

Aerys _hisses_.

“Well, well,” he says, obviously considering it, “I would _not_ easily trust someone I do not know, but your information does sound solid. Lord Connington, are you _sure_ we can trust him?”

Brienne holds her breath. _Please convince him_ , she thinks.

“I did try to check and verify what I could of it,” he says, “in such a short time. What I found out, does look true. Of course, I would leave as soon as possible, and I would bring him with for counsel, if His Grace accepts, and he would be carefully guarded to make sure he’s not lying nor bringing us into a trap, but nothing seems to indicate that he might.”

“Given that _he_ might have just handed you, Lord Connington, enough information to deal with these traitors at once, of course you would bring him with. Well then, I suppose you should contact my son, _after_ you explain me what _he_ is doing here.”

Brienne doesn’t dare rise.

“Please, _do rise_ ,” present-Jon tells her.

Brienne does, shakily.

“Your Grace,” she says, hoping that her voice sounds firm and not brimming with the rage she’s trying to tamper down, “I am honored to be here.”

For a moment, Aerys stares at her, _very_ intently, with dark violet eyes that seem to want to flay her open, and Brienne shudders.

_How did Jaime even stand to be near him for two years?_

What a question, she thinks. She knows how. She’s _seeing it_ , or she would, if she dared look at her right.

“A _woman_?”

He doesn’t sound too pleased of it. Actually, he sounds like he’s not appreciating such a joke being pulled on him.

“The last living descendant of Duncan the Tall, though,” present-Jon interferes, and Brienne _could_ kiss him for saving her from falling back on her knees all over again, even if she knows he wouldn’t appreciate nor care for it. “ _Roland_ here met her on the road and they traveled together, and that’s why they came together to talk to me.”

At _that_ , Aerys’s interest is piqued. If anything, he doesn’t look at her as if he wants to burn her alive for sure, just that as if he’s considering it, which is a definitive improvement.

“ _Ser Duncan_ ,” he mutters. “Well, you certainly do look like him, and he _did_ have a few mistresses scattered around the kingdoms, or so my grandfather said. Hm. What’d your name be then?”

“Rohanne,” she says, “Rohanne Storm. I was born on the cost facing Tarth. I never knew _him_ , my great-grandfather, I mean, your Grace. I was too young for it. But I heard of him from his daughter – my grandmother. And – as I am sure His Grace can see, the gods didn’t grace me with a womanly built.”

“That they didn’t,” Aerys says.

Actually, no. He laughs.

It sounds like _he_ is the only one having fun in between the whole lot of them, but better that he finds her amusing than anything worse. Whatever humiliation she has to go through she _will_ take it, if it means she gets to stay here and that she can carry out her mission.

“But – she said – that I kind of did look like him. And – I might not have a womanly build, but I have a _knight’s_ build. The entirety of my village agreed that I _did_ take after him, when it comes to skills with a sword. And – Ser Duncan died honorably protecting your grandfather and your family. I should like – I should like to follow his example.”

“By _dying_?”

“By _fighting_ for you, my king,” she says, not adding _as much as I wish you would drop dead right the hell now._

Aerys says nothing. Present-Jon clears his throat. “Your Grace,” he says, a lot more smoothly than before, probably emboldened by the fact that Aerys hasn’t ordered her killed yet, “I have seen her fight. She’s quite a threat,” he adds, and she can hear _I just hope she’s as good as she says she is_ even if he’s not saying it. “And – the Kingsguard is admittedly barren, right now, what with only Ser Whent, Ser Darry and Ser Lannister in the Keep, and who knows if some of them won’t be needed for the upcoming battle. If we leave, I should rest easier knowing there’s more than _one_ person guarding you or the princess.”

Aerys _laughs_ again, so loudly that Jaime startles – Brienne can notice it – and everyone else in the room does.

“Lord Connington,” he says, his long nails scratching against the iron of the throne, “are you _seriously_ implying I should take a bloody _woman_ in the Kingsguard or having her playing knight in the first place? When I don’t even know if she’s halfway good? I can believe she’d be related to Duncan, she’s his split copy, even if he was admittedly _nice_ to look at. How about that scar, _Rohanne_?”

“I got it fighting a bandit,” she says, hoping her voice doesn’t betray how much she loathes him. “He tried to bite my face off.”

“And how did that end?”

“I killed him, Your Grace.”

Aerys scoffs. “Let’s assume it’s true. Even then, from that to _being capable_ –”

Brienne knows she shouldn’t interrupt a king, never mind a _mad_ one.

But –

Fuck _that_.

She’s gone through too much to be humiliated like this all over again, and at least in Winterfell no one ever questioned her skills, and she won’t gain her place by not showing some spine at the very least.

“Your Grace,” she says, “it’s true. There is nothing I wish more than to be in the Kingsguard.”

In truth, there’s nothing she wishes any _less_ , but once she _did_ wish for it. She just has to think very hard about how it felt.

“And I will fight every single knight in your service if it means that you will give me a chance to prove my worth.”

Aerys laughs again, though at least he sounds amused all over again and not like he’ll have her dead for having interrupted him. Maybe he thinks that he’ll have fun watching her fail.

Let him.

“Ser Whent,” he says, nodding towards the knight at his left, “do you reckon she could take Ser Dayne?”

“No,” Whent says, “no, your Grace. Definitely. But Dayne is not here. If you want me to show the woman her place –”

“No, no,” Aerys interrupts, “I think I have a better idea. See, _Rohanne_ , Ser Dayne is sadly not here, but he seems to think that _Ser Jaime_ has potential to be the second-best, _after him_ , or might be soon.”

At that, Jaime _does_ finally stop looking at the ground and moves his stare to her instead.

It physically hurts to see him not recognizing her at once, but –

But –

At first he looks completely out of his depth, but a moment later she thinks the look in his eyes seems… _intrigued_ , instead?

“Your Grace?” He asks, his voice sounding carefully controlled.

“Lannister,” Aerys says, openly gloating. “I think you should fight the lady. If she bests you, or if she manages to at least _not lose_ , maybe I could be swayed. If not, well, now that would be useless to even consider it. How about _that_?”

“Whatever His Grace commands,” Jaime says, shrugging off his cloak.

“I should be honored,” Brienne says. “And I shall need no armor.”

Jaime _does_ look at her again, halfway smirking, and looking – amused? Maybe halfway impressed? But not because he thinks she has a chance of beating him, that’s for sure.

“My lady, playing with swords isn’t a light past time. Playing with swords _without armors_ , though, now that’d be a trifle excessive, wouldn’t it?”

It’s delivered so blandly she can’t even feel offended.

As if.

She _knows_ his heart isn’t in it and she _has_ heard him when he insulted her for real, back when they first met each other. This is nowhere near the venom he had in him, back in the day.

“I don’t _play_ with swords, Ser. I fight with them.”

She takes hers outside the scabbard and moves into the correct position. There’s enough space in front of the throne for a fair fight, she thinks, and –

The last time they did this, it was when he still had two hands, was in _chains_ and had been prisoner for a year.

It was also the last time he fought someone with _both_ hands.

And they had been pretty much on the same level, like _that_.

But –

She tries to think, as she waits for the thrice-forsaken king to tell them they’re free to spar.

Of course, he’ll be good. He’s most probably the best, not counting Dayne.

But she was _as good as he was_ , when he was in his thirties and had had a decade (at least) to hone his skills, and when she was _seventeen_. Now _he_ ’s seventeen, barely, and _she_ ’s nineteen and he has seen Aerys, but she’s seen Lady Stoneheart, the White Walkers, two wars, and she’s killed more people than she could care for. Most important, since she killed Stoneheart and they fled to the Vale, she and Jaime sparred _every damned day_ if they could, and they kept at it until the Walkers came and it became useless. It was to make him better with his left, of course, but the point is, she’s fought him countless times, and while only for _one_ of them he was at his best, she knows how he fights, she knows his favorite tricks and he _did_ teach her a thing or two that he couldn’t pull off anymore but that _she_ could.

 _This_ Jaime, of course, has no clue that she knows. He also obviously thinks he’s going to win easily.

She needs to balance this fight, because if she disarms him too soon it might seem suspicious and she wouldn’t want to make him look incapable in front of Aerys on top of everything.

Brienne decides that the best course is trying to draw this out long enough to show them that she’s _good_ at what she does but making sure that Jaime doesn’t look like a poor match against her, and then winning after an acceptable amount of time.

“Really,” Jaime whispers, as their blades touch – Aerys is still looking down at them, saying nothing –, “this is _not_ a game. What are you even trying to accomplish?”

If anything, he sounds merely annoyed at her now.

“You wouldn’t imagine,” Brienne whispers back, and then –

“You may begin,” Aerys shouts, and Jaime moves back, his blade raising and then moving downwards.

Brienne thrusts hers back up, missing Oathkeeper’s familiar weight in her hands, and meets the steel kiss of Jaime’s, and settles to play this game for as long as she can stand doing it.

She _does_ expect him to _not_ imagine she’d know exactly what he was going to do – they danced this dance once upon a time, didn’t they? She blocks the next couple of blows he deals her, careful to not skim towards the throne and to not move back too much, and she purposefully doesn’t attack _too_ boldly when it’s her turn, but enough that he has to hold his ground and take a step back.

She keeps herself on guard.

He stares straight at her.

His eyes don’t look so dead anymore, for now.

“All right,” he says, “you’re better than I thought.”

“I don’t like to brag,” Brienne replies, quietly, and she can see him smirk ever so slightly as he moves forward.

Good – she’s ready for him.

She meets all his blows, purposefully loses a bit of ground every time just to regain it later, and she’s just glad he’s obviously not noticing that she’s dragging this out on purpose, but thing is – they _are_ evenly matched, and the more her sword clashes against his, the more she can see that he’s enjoying it, and if _this_ was how he fought when he was barely seventeen –

Gods, she thinks, _how would it have felt to fight him at his prime when his hands weren’t tied_?

The thought distracts her enough to _almost_ leave him enough of an opening to disarm her, but she manages to dodge at the last moment, not before his sword cuts through the blue of her tunic on her leg and stains it in red.

 _How ironic_ , she thinks.

That – that was close. She can hear Aerys humming, and then, _Lannister, just show her already_ , he says, almost as if the fun of seeing them fight is wearing off.

Jaime looks at her with a face that says, _it’s been fun, but sorry about having to disarm you for real_ , because of course he wouldn’t want them to go on if Aerys isn’t appreciating their little show.

 _I’m sorry_ , she thinks, for what’s not the first time and won’t certainly be the last, and when he comes at her again she stops playing around and turns on her side in a move that _Jaime_ taught her in Winterfell, one that he assured her was especially effective, which according to him would have made the opponent think you were going to run or dodge when instead –

When instead you end up on your knees, and if you have the strength, can strike from below and surprise your opponent enough to disarm them.

She has the strength.

 _It works_ , and seconds later Jaime’s sword is out of his hands and flying towards the corner of the room.

She considers making him yield, but that’d be excessive humiliation and she thinks it’s not the point, not when she moves up to her feet with her sword pointed at his breastplate.

“What will it be?” She asks, keeping her voice as calm as even as she could.

“I’ll be –” Jaime starts, but then he raises his hands upwards and shakes his head. “I yield,” he admits, but he doesn’t sound very sorry about it.

Actually, he’s sending her an intrigued look, all over again.

Brienne has no time to consider it, because then –

“Look at that,” Aerys says, “I see that maybe Dayne should reconsider his opinions about his possible successor, hm?”

Jaime flinches. “I suppose so, Your Grace,” he says, suddenly sounding much more closed off, and his eyes go dull again. As if he’s going through the motions.

“Whent,” Aerys says, “let’s see if she can take you, too. In theory _Lannister_ should have been the best, but who knows if it was an overestimation.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Brienne barely has time to glance towards her companions on the side – she’s fairly sure that both of them are wearing twin expressions begging her to not push this, but fuck it all. She needs a place in the guard and she’s _not_ going to let this poor excuse for a knight come off as a better swordsman than Jaime, especially given that Jaime _is_ the better one anyway. She won easily because she knew him already and he didn’t suspect that she had such an advantage, after all.

She lets Whent have a few blows, then disarms him as quickly as possible and she _does_ leave him with his back to the ground while pointing her sword at his neck.

“What will it be?” She asks again, hoping to sound as calm and collected as before.

“I – I yield!” Whent doesn’t seem too happy about it, but Brienne cannot give a single damn about it. She dares glancing at Jaime. Now he’s looking at her in utter admiration – what, _why_?

Aerys tuts under his breath. “Well, well, well, seems like the _woman_ is indeed Duncan’s seed, somehow. Lord Connington, what was it that you were suggesting, again?”

“That she’d guard you, Your Grace,” younger Jon says, cautiously, and wisely backtracking on the Kingsguard suggestion. “I understand that having her in the Kingsguard might be too much, but she would definitely be an asset to your protection, and if we leave for the Stoney Sept – well, there are orders for Ser Whent to come with, should we fight. The Lord Commander told me before he left with Rhaegar. Leaving you with _two_ guards would certainly be better than merely one. Just in case.”

Aerys seems to consider it.

Then –

“It _is_ unheard of, but then again, _I_ am the king and I shall do as I please. Very well. She _can’t_ be in the guard properly, because all seven men are still among us, for good and for bad, and I won’t stand for such a ridiculous notion made official. She can _guard_ as much as she likes, though. That said… I doubt anyone could find her an armor on short notice. She can wear her _grandfather_ ’s, it will be good enough, whether it’s white or not. As far as you two are concerned, you can think about what it says about you that a _woman_ beat you both,” he laughs, and Brienne can see that Whent is staring at her with a fair amount of hatred, most likely wishing she would drop dead.

Jaime, though –

Jaime _isn’t_.

He goes back at once to his blank expression from before, but for a moment, Brienne was sure he looked relieved.

Wait.

Didn’t he tell her –

 _Didn’t he tell her that he rued being the only one left in the Red Keep when everyone else had gone_?

Of course, he’s relieved she’s here. It means there’s _someone else_ to share his duties with, and if he has to go through this humiliation to get it, he probably thinks it’s worth the price.

She feels sick.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she says, as courteously as she can, wiping sweat from her forehead. “I will try my best.”

\--

“Good gods,” Jon tells her the moment the three of them are escorted out of the room and towards the armory in the White Sword Tower where _she_ is supposed to look for Ser Duncan’s old armor, “I thought I would bloody die in there. Did you completely lose your mind?”

“By doing what,” she hisses, “ _replying_ to him? He did take me on, after all.”

“Fair,” he replies, “but you know that now he’s going to use you to make Lannister feel lesser, don’t you?”

Doesn’t she imagine that. “I know,” she says, “but I’ll live. And _he_ ’ll live. That’s what’s most important.”

“Well, you’ve barely managed, but never mind that. Come over.”

They’re at the first floor of the Lord Commander’s tower, following Jon’s present self.

“Here,” he said, “they keep the armors belonging to all previous Lord Commanders. It shouldn’t be too far or hidden, since he died recently all things considered.”

He brings the both of them in front of a large, white armor standing just on the left of the room, and – right. It was definitely made for a man. A _large_ man, and a tall one. Still –

“Can you try it on?” Jon asks.

“Of course I can. I didn’t exactly have squires for most of my life.”

She’s _not_ going to think of Pod.

Not _now_.

She quickly puts it on over her clothes, maybe not as accurately as she could, but by the time she’s done it’s obvious that while it might be a bit large, it _does_ fit her well enough.

“Well,” Jon tells her, “at this point, proof or not, you _might_ as well be the man’s heir. That thing fits you entirely too well.”

Gods. She’s going to parade around _in a former Lord Commander’s armor_.

“Take it off and bring it over to whatever room they’ll show you,” younger-Jon tells her, “you can fix it later. And I have to give you your own sword back before anyone finds out about it.”

“How about the two of you?”

Jon sighs. “I’d leave tomorrow, but we need to put a proper army together and we need to contact Rhaegar, and if I don’t remember wrong –”

“No, _no one_ bar Whent and Darry knows where he is,” his counterpart says, “ _in theory_ , because you do, but –”

“I know, I can’t exactly say it. I will find Whent later tonight and instruct him very thoroughly about what he should say to convince Rhaegar to _at least_ meet us at the Stoney Sept, or I could instruct _you_ and you will instruct _him_ , however works best for you.”

“Certainly we’re not leaving _tomorrow_.”

A moment later, a servant knocks on their door asking if they’re done, because he has to show the _lady Rohanne_ to her room, not that it’s far. Brienne quickly takes off the armor, then hoists it under her arms and follows the other two men outside. The servant doesn’t look too impressed with her, but motions for her to follow.

“In theory,” he says, “you shouldn’t sleep here, since it’s only for the _men_ in the guard, but most of them aren’t here and the king won’t have you in the castle. You can have the room near Ser Jaime’s.”

 _This is getting worse and worse_ , she thinks, or maybe it’s good news but she can’t see _how_ right now. She nods and she’s shown to a small, bare room – it’s Ser Barristan’s, or so she’s told. There are belongings in it, of course, but not _many_. The window is small and the bed is barely big enough for her – gods, she had longed for this job once, and now she has just another reason to think it might not have been such a good idea.

Never mind.

“I am grateful,” she says. “What are my duties?”

The servant shrugs. “The king says you should go back to the throne room as soon as you can change into your armor and proper garb. There should be some old clothes of _your grandfather’s_ left on the bed.”

“Very well. I will be there shortly.”

“You’d better be, my lady,” the servant says, and leaves quickly.

For a moment, neither of them says a thing.

“Get adjusted,” Jon tells her, sympathetically, “that’s _all_ you’re going to get for the next few weeks.”

She shrugs. “I’ve been through worse.”

The other men look at each other, and Brienne can’t help feeling weirded out still – knowing they’re _the same person_ isn’t helping.

“My lady,” younger-Jon says, “we should probably go and plan what we need to do when Rhaegar is concerned. Since _that_ will require a lot of thinking, I fear. Will you be all right?”

“Of course. I – I will see you both whenever my service is over, I suppose?”

“Indeed. I’ll bring you back the sword and leave it under the mattress. That said… good luck. You’ll need it.”

Jon squeezes her arm before following his younger self out of the door.

 _Well then_.

Brienne quickly gets rid of her clothes, makes sure that her wound is just a scratch, cleans it off with her ruined breeches and looks at the dusty, old ones that have been left on the bed.

She wears the breeches and the shirt and marvel at how _well_ they fit her – not perfectly, Duncan must have been just slightly taller than she was, and a bit larger, but not too much.

She was kind of feeling guilty for just going with the _Duncan’s great-granddaughter_ story without even knowing if that shield was in the armory for any other reasons, but at this point she _really_ as well might be. It’s too much of a coincidence that not only she’d share the man’s features but also _his size_.

Maybe _he_ ’s the reason, she thinks as she puts on the armor and secures it. With a bit of work she manages to fix it in place properly – it’s not her custom-made one from her own time, but it will do.

She thinks of what Jaime said once about this damned white plate changing you the moment you wear it.

She shakes her head, places her sword at her hip, missing Oathkeeper’s weight all over again, and heads straight for the throne room.

\--

“There’s the lady,” Aerys says. “Well, my Hand said he had need for Ser Whent. That’s his place. All yours.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she says, and stands in the damned place.

She doesn’t even dare glance at Jaime.

Though _maybe_ it would have been better if she had, she realizes not long later.

\--

By the time the king says that it’s time for dinner to be served, it hasn’t even been _that_ long, after all it was already sundown when they arrived here and now it’s dark outside, but she had to hear Aerys sentence to death some five people who were in the dungeons for fairly minor crimes, see a minor lord who hadn’t given – according to Aerys – enough men for their fleet being dragged to the dungeons with a promise of dying very soon and _everyone_ else around them doesn’t even try to discourage Aerys’s decisions.

Good gods, and it’s been what, an hour? Two? Not even that long. She thinks of looking at worse than she has every day for _years_ and she wants to hurl.

\--

At dinner, she’s introduced to the princess Elia and the two children – both mother and daughter look surprised but not _enraged_ or anything at her appointment. In truth, it’s the exact contrary.

“I think,” the princess tells her after their introductions, “that you would like Dorne, Rohanne.”

“Are knights such as me more common?”

“Entirely,” Elia replies, and her daughter beams next to her as she confirms her mother’s statement.

Brienne thinks, _if I fail they will die all over again_ , and the appetite she had felt suddenly vanishes.

She also wonders _how_ they’re supposed to sleep or eat when it’s _two_ of them here (or will be soon) and Whent will leave soon.

 _How did Jaime even do it alone?_ , she thinks as she glances at him, standing right behind Aerys, looking down at the ground with that same, blank face while she stands behind the princess, though not as close.

\--

“Lannister will escort me,” the king says as he finishes eating. Brienne feels _really_ grateful that both Queen Rhaella and her firstborn are in Dragonstone already, or she can just imagine _what_ Jaime would have had to listen to. “ _Rohanne_ over there will worry about the princess.”

Jaime bows and follows Aerys out.

Brienne doesn’t move.

Then –

“Rohanne? Please do eat something,” the princess says.

“I – I wouldn’t,” Brienne replies.

“Please,” Elia goes on. “You look like you need it. And I can escort myself and my children back to my room, don’t worry.”

“My lady,” Brienne says at once, “I wouldn’t want to be remiss in my duties on my very first day here. I will escort you and then I will come back and eat something, if it please you.”

“Well, it’s a fair compromise. Let’s walk then.”

She takes Rhaenys by the hand and waits for a maid to pick up Aegon, then Brienne follows all of them back to her chambers, memorizing the route. She answers to a few questions about her childhood as vaguely as possible, bides the princess goodnight and when she’s sure she’s settled she leaves while a few City Watch guards stationed by the door snicker at her and she goes back to get the food in question.

She eats a few leftovers, and then looks at the tray of lemoncakes left on the table. The maids are standing, ready to bring them away.

Brienne grabs a couple, making them think she will eat them outside the room, but instead she asks directions to Aerys’s rooms.

She finds Jaime perched outside the door, alone.

Of course he would be.

She swallows once, twice, and then she walks up to him, not daring to speak up in a high voice.

“Ser?” She whispers, and he suddenly turns towards her, tired green eyes meeting hers, and – he’s not _hostile_.

Just – guarded.

“Lady Rohanne.”

“I’m no lady,” she protests, and then she hands him the lemoncakes she had bundled in one of the dirty napkins – she hopes no one noticed, but given how many of the things are around a noble household, never mind the court, she highly doubts it. “I – I noticed that you must have been standing guard for the whole day. And I haven’t seen you eat anything. I haven’t been told our shifts, so I don’t know when yours ends, but I thought I’d bring you something from the kitchens.”

For a moment, he looks completely taken aback, as he reaches out and takes the bundle. “I’m not supposed to eat on duty,” he huffs, “but then again, I haven’t had anything since this morning. I suppose that I shall accept your peace offering.”

“I – was there ever a war between us?” She asks, and when he smirks ever so slightly _in the exact same way he used to_ twenty years from this moment, she thinks she might faint.

“Unless you want it to be,” he says. “But you did give me a good fight, before. Not very good for my reputation, I’m afraid.”

“I – I only wish to do my duty,” she says cautiously.

He snorts, but it’s a very ugly sound. “You’ll wish I won that fight soon enough. But thank you nonetheless. As far as our… shifts go, I will be here for a few hours still. I was told you are to join me tomorrow morning, but since you’re sleeping next to my room, I suppose it won’t be hard to find you.”

“I will be there.”

“Good. Then go get some fucking sleep, since you _can_.”

No man of seven and ten should sound so tired, Brienne thinks as she nods and takes her leave.

\--

Oathkeeper is indeed to be found under her mattress when she comes back to Ser Barristan’s room– she considers a better place to hide it, but then decides that the closet wouldn’t be that much safer and it’s highly unlikely that the owner of the room will come back anytime soon, if things go the same as they did. Actually, it’s even _less_ likely if Rhaegar leaves the Tower of Joy and goes to the Stoney Sept, _all_ of the Kingsguard will be there.

She leaves it where it is and sleeps, very little and very badly.

She’s almost glad of being woken up by someone knocking on her door, because it takes her from a fairly horrible dream where _her_ Jaime looked at her with sad, disappointed her and asked, _why would you hurt me so_ , and –

She looks out of the window. It’s night still.

She stands up and opens the door – it’s Jon.

“May I come in?”

“Of course,” she answers, letting him in. “Do you have any news?”

“Yes,” he says. “Thankfully _he_ , well, we know, has enough sway to convince what’s left of the Small Council. I mean, I remember _I_ did, but never mind that. I’m just convinced anything might go wrong.”

“Don’t you tell me,” she agrees. “So, what’s the result?”

“There’s a council meeting in the morrow – if everything goes the way it should, Whent is going to the Tower of Joy with our message to Rhaegar and he’s on orders to convince him to _come_ whether he wants it or not.”

“What about Lyanna Stark?”

Jon sighs. “Well, she’s – she shouldn’t be able to travel at this point, maybe, I think, but I’m not so sure. But – I’ll bargain to send a maester with Whent and leave him there should she go into labor and hope that the truce works so Stark can go get her before she even delivers that baby.”

Brienne nods – it’s good enough, for now. It has to be, anyhow; she doubts that they could do more right now.

“Anyway, the plan is the following. Whent goes, we assemble _more_ men than I had back in the day and we all leave for the Sept in time to meet Stark when he gets there. At that point Robert will have to come out of hiding or he will have already, and _hopefully_ they’ll talk. _Hopefully_.”

“When should you leave?”

“As soon as the men are put together, I suppose, even if we’ll take the trip slow so that Rhaegar can catch up with us.”

Brienne nods. This makes –

“So how long do I have to be here? One moon?”

“I hope less,” Jon tells her, “but I doubt it’ll be the case. I’m sorry,” he says. “That said, I _think_ I figured out a way to – well, make things less ugly for Lannister, shall we succeed. Or well, make it less likely that he’d die for killing the mad bastard.”

“Do tell me,” she says, trying to _not_ let the small flicker of hope that just sparkled to life inside her turn into a flame lest she really does get burned.

“Mind that it’ll be dangerous.”

“I don’t care. Whatever it takes, I’m willing to do it.”

“Very well. We _will_ have ravens, there. Before the negotiations start I’m going to send a message to the court. Unsigned, of course. It will say that everything has failed and Rhaegar died and the rebel army is marching towards King’s Landing.”

 _Oh_ , Brienne thinks, _I think I know where this is going_.

“If Aerys isn’t changed, he will react – the same way he did back then,” Jon whispers. “Which means that he _might_ try to light that wildfire, and if he does, well, there you have an excuse. Rhaegar won’t protest if he’s told that his father was going to burn everything down, the responsible for the mistake won’t be known and be sure that – _I_ , as in, my counterpart, will make sure to let him know that it was unavoidable. Mind that it _will_ make Aerys lose whatever’s left of his wits.”

Which _would_ make things wildly unpredictable, Brienne knows, but –

“It’s better than nothing,” she says. “I will wait for your message, then.”

“Are you _sure_?”

“I am,” she says. “Don’t worry. I can handle it. And I’ll make sure that the princess and her children are safe before making sure Aerys dies.”

“Good,” Jon tells her. “Good. Then we have an agreement.” He sighs, sounding very weary. “I should go,” he says. “Tomorrow will be a hard day and before I have to leave I should like to – to –” He can’t even seem to _say_ it, but Brienne thinks she knows.

She tentatively puts a hand on his wrist. “You wish to see Aegon, don’t you?” She asks quietly.

“I can introduce myself the way I did to the king,” Jon replies. “Elia wouldn’t know me. And – gods, I thought such horrible things of her because I thought no one was worthy of Rhaegar, back in the day. What a fool I was.”

“Jon, we all made mistakes and we all were young and stupid.”

“Brienne, you’re not even _twenty_. I think you’re still young, albeit I would disagree on the second half of that sentence.”

“Believe me, I don’t feel young at all. Never mind that. Do it – I can imagine how it must feel.”

 _If it felt anywhere like it did for me when I saw Jaime again, I can indeed imagine it_.

“You would,” he agrees. “I will introduce myself tomorrow. Meanwhile – I don’t know if we’ll have any more chances to talk like this from now on.”

No, Brienne realizes, that’s _very_ unlikely, if he gets swooped into military planning and she’s guarding – either Aerys or Elia or her children.

“Probably not,” she agrees. “And in theory we shouldn’t even know each other, as far as everyone else but _yourself_ is concerned. I – I imagine this is goodbye, at least if we don’t have another chance to talk?”

“I would like to not take any chances,” he agrees, and stands up. She follows, nodding, and feeling a knot in her throat. For a moment she thinks, _should I_ , and then –

Fuck it all.

It’s _awkward_ because she’s taller than he is and this isn’t something she’s done with many people – actually, maybe just with Jaime and a few others she could count on one hand – but shaking his hand would feel entirely too little, and so she reaches out and hugs him instead, and it might be awkward but she can feel that he has a strong grip as he returns it with his good arm.

“Good luck,” he tells her as they part. “I hope you succeed.”

“I wish you the same,” she tells him, trying to _not_ cry. “I really do hope you can save your prince.”

“And I hope you can do the same with your knight, as much as you can,” he says softly, and then he squeezes her shoulder one last time and leaves the room, as quietly as he had come in.

She breathes in once, twice, thrice.

Her eyes are _burning_ , and she kind of wants to cry and not just because she’s losing the one ally she had for sure (and he’ll bring his younger self with, so she’ll be on her own from a few days from now, and it never used to be a problem before, but _now_ it is, gods if it is).

She doesn’t know who has it worse in between the two of them, because _he_ at least has to save Rhaegar’s life and not ruin it, but he couldn’t very well _stay_ around him lest someone recognized him, could he? As far as _she_ is concerned, she _can_ stay around Jaime indeed. She will have to.

But she still has to –

Her trail of thought gets broken when she hears steps outside her room. She stands still, breathing in shallowly, until she hears someone coming inside the next room over.

Jaime. Of course, it has to be. Maybe during the night, the City Watch takes his place guarding the king, or maybe Whent did for the last time.

She hears him take off his armor in silence, and she hears noise of clothes being shed, and she thinks of the times she would watch him take them off or she’d _help_ him do it

(but _this_ Jaime has two hands and no need for her _help_ , nor would he want it)

and all the times they brought to other things, that she surely will _not_ think of now because they had little time enough as it was and she can’t torture herself like this.

She hears Jaime sliding into the bed – damn. It has to be right on the other side of the wall.

She lets out the breath she had been holding and slides under the covers again. Maybe she can sleep again.

That is, she closes her eyes. She dozes off, maybe, with difficulty –

And then she hears screaming coming from the other side of the wall.

Her first instinct is throwing away the covers and running to the other side, the way she used to in Winterfell and on the road from the Vale

( _she would move behind his back and put an arm around his waist and he’d stop turning over on his back, and he’d breathe slower, and then he’d wake up and look at her and closes his eyes as his face softened in relief, and he’d move his head against her shoulder and she’d run her fingers through his soft, golden hair and at some point they stopped pretending that sleeping separately was what they both wanted_ )

but she _can’t_ now.

This is not the man she knew, and she already pushed it bringing him that food when she shouldn’t have and they have barely bloody _met_ , in this time. She can’t just barge inside his room and do _anything_ lest she looks absolutely inappropriate, and so she grasps at her pillow hard enough she thinks she’ll break its case as he screams again.

And again.

At some point, she’s sure he starts crying, and his voice is completely broken as he says, _please don’t burn them_.

She can’t do anything.

But –

She lets those tears she had kept in before fall against the pillow, not even bothering to stop them, because as miserable as she feels, she might at least keep him company even if he can’t know that.

Gods.

She’s _right next to him_ , and she can’t do a thing, and whether Jon manages to send that raven or not, _she has to make sure he kills Aerys_ , and she has never felt less deserving of even looking in his direction than she is now. Of course, when they met it was absolutely different and he wasn’t the man she realized he had the potential to be later (not the one he had become when he had understood he _could_ still be Arthur Dayne), and she thinks she had gotten over thinking that in a world where the war hadn’t happened, someone like him would have never looked at her twice (and it seems like in _this_ one he _has_ noticed her, one way or the other), and he _had_ told her she had helped with finding where the best part of him had gone, but –

Now she has him right beyond that wall, _before_ his life was ruined, _before_ he sacrificed his honor to save people who only ever had contempt for him after, _before_ he gave up on his dreams of being Arthur Dayne, and instead of helping him –

Instead of helping him, she has to figure out the way she can _least_ hurt him to save _everyone else’s life_ , his included, and he can’t know, and she can’t go and tell him _I know exactly what you’re dreaming of because_ you _told me some seventeen years from now_.

She’s never, never, _never_ felt so useless, not even when she watched Renly die in front of her own eyes.

She hides her face in the pillow, pulling her blankets over her head, even if she can hear him all the same.

For now, she can’t do anything.

But if she has one moon left here at least, she _will_ try to not _be_ useless, even if she feels like she is right now, and maybe she will figure out a way to do what Bran said without risking to wake up in the future and find out Jaime’s head isn’t on his shoulders anymore, because _that_ is a future she would very much hate to live in.

It should probably worry her, that she’s thinking _if it has to be so to save all of Westeros I’d do it, but I’d never not regret it for the rest of my days_ and that if she had to live in a world where he’s dead then she might as well have stayed in Winterfell and died there.

In the morning, she won’t let those thoughts touch her any further, she decides, but for now she can’t stop them from coming, and she falls asleep listening to Jaime’s curses coming from the other side of the wall whenever he wakes up (and he wakes up at least three times before she loses count), swearing to herself over and over that she _will_ try to find an alternate way to the obvious outcome of this quest until the very last moment.

It’s the least she owes Jaime, after all.

 

 

TBC


	4. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Jaime gets a break, Brienne doesn't and Jon plans, recruits an ally and thinks back on a few things, and doesn't like the result of it one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... isg2 I'm trying to do one chapter per week but let's just say that with this one I about changed my mind about a few things that are gonna happen later and then it was supposed to be short and then it got LONGER and - yeah. Anyway, have fun with poor Jon's Srs Issues (and with everyone's issues I guess) and see you next time with most likely another 10k+ of 'will Brienne manage to stick to the plan and make sure Jaime isn't completely miserable?, tune in to find out'.
> 
> /o\ *saunters vaguely downwards and leaves this here*

He _knows_ he should head for the council immediately – they have to give Ser Whent his letter to bring Rhaegar, he has to convince everyone of his plan and he has to do it while Aerys still thinks him an asset and he needs to be _fast_ , because the more time passes the worse the pit in his stomach seems to become even wider with the need to know things are under control and that Rhaegar _will live_.

But as he breaks his fast at the far end of the table he can’t help glancing over at Elia and her children, sitting on the opposite side. Aerys isn’t here – thankfully. Brienne and Jaime Lannister aren’t here either – then again, Aerys breaks his fast in his own room and Jon has a feeling the princess isn’t the first priority around the Red Keep when it comes to make sure of the royal family’s safety.

He eats the last of his bacon and stands up, hoping against hope that having wholly ignored Elia’s existence as much as he could back in the day means that _now_ she won’t even link him to the current Hand of the King.

“My lady,” he tells her, clearing his throat and bowing as much as he can without looking ridiculous and losing his balance.

She looks up at him before nodding back courteously and standing up – Rhaenys is dutifully finishing her food, Aegon is sleeping in the crook of her arm.

He feels a damned pang to his heart.

“Ser – Roland, was it?” She asks, only courtesy in her tone.

“Indeed,” he says. “Forgive me if I disturb you, but I haven’t had the chance to pay my respects properly yet and it seemed the appropriate moment.”

“Oh, that’s no bother at all. I heard you will talk to the small council soon?”

“In a short while, yes, but I do have a bit of time left. I merely hope that what I heard will help the crown settle things.”

“If it brings my _royal_ husband back here alive we shall all be plenty grateful to you, Ser,” she says, her voice turning slightly sour as she looks down at her child.

Who once was also _his_ , even if she cannot know that yet and never will, however things go.

“I – I hope the same,” Jon says, as diplomatically as possible. “Hopefully he will be.” _Indeed_. “And – I should go soon, but I just wanted to say, those are two absolutely fine children.”

Rhaenys smiles behind her spoon.

Jon thinks, guiltily, _and I never even took notice of her back then, because she looked like her mother._

“Thank you,” Elia says, and now she sounds delighted. “Admittedly, this one’s all his father, but let’s hope he is for the best reasons.”

 _Oh, he will be_ , Jon barely manages to _not_ say. “From what I hear about his lord father, it sounds like the truth.” He had been about to tell her that yes, he was, but then he remembers that a soldier who’s been in the Golden Company for years and is supposed to be bastard-born to boot would have never had the chance to see the crown prince up close.

Then he notices how _tired_ she looks, and how – older than he remembered her looking, and then he has to admit, _wouldn’t she have all reasons_? Her husband just disappeared with a younger woman he ran off with and that he crowned Queen of Love and Beauty while _she_ was attending, and she’s been here with two children, little protection and Aerys for company for most of the time since.

How unfair had he been to her, back in the day? And just because Rhaegar married _her_ , when admittedly, and it hurts to say it, he never really _loved_ her in the first place?

(Same as he never could love _him_ , Jon thinks bitterly.)

“You’re one courteous knight, ser,” she replies, sounding happy about it, though. “Let’s all hope that you being here is a sign we can end this – this rebellion without further bloodshed.”

“That’s what I hope, too. I – I should go now, the Small Council won’t wait that much longer, but I will do my best to help out.”

“Then let’s all hope we succeed,” she says, smiling sincerely even if tiredly, holding her son closer to her chest.

Jon has to bow and take his leave before he throws up or does something even worse.

Bran Stark had said that Elia had to live, but thing is – before, he had figured he’d take what precautions he could and leave the rest in Brienne’s hands.

Now, though –

Now he doesn’t know if he _can_ without making sure he’s done everything in his power to avoid it, if only as a late apology to the poor woman when he only scorned her for jealousy all his life.

He breathes in, puts himself back into a semblance of composure and heads back for the Small Council’s room.

\--

Ser Whent had _not_ looked too convinced at his orders, Jon thinks as he watches him leave not long later, but at least he hadn’t questioned them.

Good thing that, since if he _had_ – well, if he _had_ Jon would have remembered enough from _his_ time here and heard enough from Brienne to know how to convince him anyway.

“I still don’t understand _why_ you had to send the maester. It’s just going to slow him down.”

Jon had never thought he’d ever wish to chide _himself_ , but look at where he is.

He turns back to his own younger face staring straight at him.

“Because,” he says, “it’s _mandatory_ that Ned Stark lives and that he has at least his first four children, and if his sister doesn’t die in childbirth _maybe_ it would make things somewhat easier.”

“You’re _assuming_ that it’s mandatory.”

“Well, I’m _here_ because _his fourth son_ saw fit to send me, now do you think I really want to risk doing something that would put that child out of existence for sure when I can avoid it?”

 _And when I saw Jon Snow die in front of me in my time, and when I knew him long enough that I’d have given my other arm if it meant that he’d live_.

He can’t help remembering how dreadfully _unhappy_ Jon always looked, more than his father ever did at his most melancholic, and how he thought that was no way a boy of not even eight and ten should have looked. If he can shape the future somehow, he wants him to have at least both his parents, if he can’t have a normal life at any point.

Because _he_ is the one, isn’t he?

Even if it eventually didn’t matter, did it?

“Gods,” his younger self groans, “couldn’t we just have gone ourselves and warned him?”

 _How rash I was back then_.

Or _now_.

“No,” Jon replies, hoping it’s with a tone of finality. “It’s a long way until Dorne and I need to make sure of a few other things here.” He considers telling himself of the plan when it comes to Lannister, then he decides that it’s better saved for later. The last thing he needs is throwing _that_ into this whole affair, too.

“As in? You have free leave and free reign of the Red Keep, as far as everyone’s concerned for now, but I’d like to know _what_ it is you’re thinking since according to the king and according to the entire court, _I_ brought you here.”

Right, _that_ would be a sensible request, Jon thinks.

Too bad that knowing _himself_ , he knows he’s not going to listen, at least at first.

“Very well. I need to make sure _nothing_ happens to Elia Martell first and foremost, _nor_ to her children.”

He can see his own eyes narrowing and his own hands (how _lovely_ it would be, to have two once again) curling in fists.

“I’m not –”

“I never said _you_ had to make sure. I said _I_ had to make sure.”

“I don’t see how – you said her _children_ were important.”

“No, you didn’t hear me out. Bran Stark said Rhaegar had to live, along with all of his children, along with Elia. Lyanna’s survival wasn’t as relevant, as long as her son did live, but – Gods, you think I _don’t_ remember?”

“What, how it feels to look at her and hate that _she_ –”

“ _That_ exactly,” Jon interrupts himself. Shit. Right. It’s a sour wound still. He _knows_ it was. It was for him, too, years later, but that was before he realized how vain his efforts had been and before he saw how Lannister looked gutted in the days before he died when he was delirious with fever and said he couldn’t protect her but that he had _wanted_ to, and before he actually talked to her earlier in the morning. “I know. Do you think I don’t remember that wedding? Do you think I didn’t want to look away when they kissed? Do you think I _don’t_ remember that I got drunk before the bedding on purpose so I would have an excuse to not join? I _do_. But I also raised that woman’s son for years, and I saw him die in front of me, same as I saw his half-brother die for nothing, and she hasn’t – she hasn’t chosen this, she’s been treated ill enough and I certainly don’t want her to die while Gregor Clegane rapes her with her son’s blood on his hands, as far as she knows anyway.”

He can see a certain disgust come across his own younger face. Good.

“Fine. And how do you plan to make sure of that?”

“I’m thinking on it, but I have a feeling I need to talk to Jaime Lannister to clear my mind. Do you think you have enough sway to excuse him from his duties for a while?”

“Have you _forgotten_? Aerys isn’t ever letting it happen, unless you ask him first, I suppose. Especially now that Whent’s away. Fine, Ser Darry should be back shortly, but I doubt he’s going to stay here.”

“No, and he shouldn’t,” Jon sighs.

“… Wait, why? Because he wasn’t here the first time _this_ happened, according to you?”

“No, because Brienne has to make sure Aerys _dies_ and from what I remember he’d have opposed it. Never mind that. I’ll have to chance it, I suppose.”

“So what, are you going to ask Aerys to let you _borrow_ his Kingsguard for the day?”

“Hopefully I will just have to talk,” Jon sighs, and then leaves the room. He needs to be fast, especially if Aerys is not in a good mood today, and if he wants to find _some_ way to make sure Gregor Clegane never even reaches the Red Keep he needs to talk to someone who _would_ have a clue of how the man thinks or behaves – he only hopes Rhaegar knighted him because he wanted such a strong man in _his_ ranks, and didn’t that backfire spectacularly? – and the Cleganes are sworn to the Lannisters and there’s just _one_ person in here whose name is Lannister.

He doesn’t have much of a choice.

He heads for the throne room, hoping against hope that Aerys is in fact in a good mood –

Just to run into Jaime Lannister walking in the other direction, with a weird look to his face – on one side he looks _utterly relieved_ , on the other he’s a bit hunched on himself, as if he wishes he could disappear into the ground.

Doesn’t Jon get him _now_.

“Ser Lannister,” Jon says, and he stops at once.

“Ser Roland,” Lannister replies, looking up at him with a young face that Jon can’t quite place because he talked to the man more when he was five and thirty than when he was seven and ten and it’s just all so weird. “Can I help you?”

“Actually, yes. Do you have a moment or are you in a hurry?”

Lannister lets out a strangled laugh. “Well, in theory the King has sent me to _look after the princess_ for the day because since I lost to a woman yesterday, it’s fit that I spend time with the women, so I was heading to her rooms, but you might walk with me if you like.”

“Of course,” Jon says, thinking that it’s ideal – he won’t need much more time to make his point. He’s tempted to ask Lannister whether he’s relishing his situation or not, but from what he sees the burn of the humiliation doesn’t hurt near enough to outshadow the relief of being out of Aerys’s shadow for a while.

He hopes Brienne will fare decently, but he’s seen enough of her to know she _will_.

“So, what do you need to know?” Lannister asks, guarded and without letting anything transpire from his tone.

Jon remembers him looking overjoyed at Harrenhaal.

He doesn’t ask himself, _what happened to him_. He knows.

“I was – while I was traveling North, uh, I ended up sharing bread with some soldiers who thought I was just going to King’s Landing for a passage to the Summer Islands. Some were talking of possibly convincing some prominent Lannister men to join their ranks, so to speak.”

Lannister _obviously_ bites his own tongue. “Such as?”

“It seems like the rebels are thinking of Gregor Clegane. Because he _was_ technically sworn to the crown, but –”

“Don’t even count on that,” Lannister interrupts him. “I mean, if you need to know whether you’ll have to _fight_ Clegane or not, stay sure that unless my father tells him that our family is joining the Rebellion, he _won’t_.” Jon can hear some sort of desperate hope in that, and of course, because isn’t Lannister also a glorified hostage in all of this? Sure as the seven hells Aerys _did_ keep him here to avoid his father siding _against_ the crown.

“Well, that’s a relief to hear, I suppose. And what if _we_ wanted to convince him to come back?”

“Ser Roland, you’ve been with the Golden Company too long. No one in my father’s service ever leaves it if he doesn’t agree with it, and Gregor Clegane isn’t an exception. Good gods, he’s even employing that monster’s _younger brother_ who’s what, twelve? No one is stupid enough to risk that, unless the rebels lose and Aerys threatens my father with fire and blood to make him bend the knee.”

“So we can assume that Ser Gregor is currently in your father’s army waiting for his orders?”

“You can also assume he will carry them out brutally,” Lannister agrees tiredly.

They’re almost at the princess’s rooms now, and Jon should probably think his plan through.

Still –

“I – I hope yesterday didn’t cause too much trouble for you, Ser.”

Lannister about has to stop himself from laughing in his face. “Sorry, meaning _what_?”

“Well, the lady was coming with _me_ , and –”

“Ser Roland, may I tell you something, from knight to knight, that I should hope you will never report to anyone else if you don’t want me to murder you on sight the next time we see each other?”

Jon holds a breath at how Lannister suddenly sounds _serious_ , completely and utterly, and gives him a soft nod.

“I’ll need your word.”

“You have my word.”

“Very well. Ser, as much as I hope for everyone’s sake that this rebellion ends with the least possible bloodshed and that Prince Rhaegar comes back to everyone’s satisfaction, you have _seen_ how the king is lately.”

“I – I have.”

“There’s quite literally _no bloody humiliation_ I wouldn't suffer if it means that I don’t have to stay in his presence for the entire day, and if being beaten by someone who’s at least as good as I am is the price I have to pay, _who cares_. And I have _never_ told you this. Are we clear?”

“Of course,” Jon says at once.

Lannister sends him a fairly surprised look. “What? Nothing to say about how I’m not doing my duty?”

“I’m not wearing white,” Jon tells him. “It’s not my place to judge you. And – I hope you have some respite then.”

Lannister sends him such a _grateful_ look, for a moment, that Jon’s knees almost falter.

“If it consoles you, if more people like you were wearing white maybe we’d be better off,” Lannister mutters. “Have a good day, Ser Roland. And may your knowledge help save us all.”

He turns his back to him and knocks on the door, and Jon starts to leave, but then he turns back just to glance at Lannister’s utterly _relieved_ face as he’s let inside the room.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

If he needed any more reasons to go ahead with his plan when it concerns Lannister then he just got them, but – he was going to send that raven because of Brienne more than anything else, and because he knows _she_ wouldn’t want the consequences of their actions to ruin the man’s life, but now that he’s actually talked to him –

Fuck, how did he never even _notice_ the first time around?

_Because I was too absorbed thinking about helping Rhaegar, resolving this rebellion honorably and successfully and I didn’t think of anyone else._

Not that his younger counterpart isn’t making the exact same mistakes, in theory.

No, he thinks as he makes his way towards the room he’s currently being given, he’s _not_ going to leave anything to chance if he can when it comes to this entire business, and if it includes making sure Lannister doesn’t die or has his life ruined, so be it.

\--

 _At least it’s a comfortable bed,_ he thinks as he sits down on the mattress and tries to make some kind of mental list of everything he has to deal with before he leaves. He wishes Brienne was here to discuss it with, but now _that_ would be risking too much and he can’t afford to go look for her, especially if _she_ is on Aerys-watch duty.

So.

Lannister has to kill Aerys _and_ live, but his timed lying raven should be enough to solve it, along with making sure his younger counterpart listens to him and supports Lannister’s cause, but he _will_ make himself listen, however much it takes.

Lyanna Stark _should_ live, if he can help it, but beyond sending the maester there was nothing else he could have done bar making sure the war ends and let Ned Stark get her.

Elia _has_ to live and the children do, too, and that requires making _absolutely_ sure that Gregor Clegane never even sets foot in the Red Keep, because even if Brienne manages to be there to guard Elia, she’d be one against the bloody Mountain and however many men he brings with, and he knows she might be _that_ good and that she has Valyrian steel, but chancing it wouldn’t be a good idea. Now, Clegane only comes if Tywin Lannister sees value in Elia dying, but if they do manage the truce, he _wouldn’t_ have any reason to do so –

Would he?

Can he trust his hunch on this? He can’t, especially because who even bloody knows how Lannister would behave in such a situation – he _didn’t_ raise a finger during the Rebellion until he was sure of who’d win, and – no. From what he’s heard from both his sons back before they both died –

He can’t plan anything based on _assumption_ when it comes to Tywin Lannister. He can’t make sure Gregor stays out of King’s Landing for sure –

But –

But then he realizes, _who even brought Aegon to you?_

He stands up at once, slamming the door open and looking for Varys – if he can’t keep Gregor from Elia for sure, he can keep _her_ from Gregor.

Or better, _Varys_ could, and Jon will most likely make sure he fucking will. As he walks through the hallways, he considers coming up with some lie, but maybe –

Maybe _not_.

He knows he should keep his mouth shut, but Varys is observant, and Varys figures things out, and Varys is most likely going to want to know more about the mysterious Rohanne Storm, and Brienne might need a friend or at least someone who’ll _help_ her in this nest of vipers the moment he’s gone.

Also, Varys works _for the realm_ , and what is Jon doing right now?

He has to ask around and it’s too long a time before he’s finally directed toward the gardens, where Varys is taking a stroll.

Good, at least they’ll be alone.

“Lord Varys,” he says, falling into step with the man, and not even attempting to introduce himself.

“Ser… Roland,” Varys replies, sounding surprised. He looks so much younger than he did when he brought Aegon over, Jon thinks, and it’s been merely years. “I believe we haven’t had the pleasure yet?”

Jon considers it – should they do this _now_ , or somewhere else?

They’re out in the open. Maybe it _is_ too dangerous.

“In theory,” Jon says.

“In – theory?”

“My lord,” he says, “I urgently need your help. But I cannot say _now_ or here. I need a private place.”

“ _Private_? And what does _in theory_ –”

“It means we already know each other,” Jon whispers. “My lord, take a good look at me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know how it sounds. Just _do_ , please.”

Varys scoffs but does, staring straight into Jon’s eyes for a moment, then longer, than longer, and then –

Then he shakes his head.

“I – Ser, I am afraid I am seeing things.”

“If you are assuming you already know me because I look like the _Hand of the King_ but older,” Jon whispers, “it’s because _I am_. Now, can you bring me somewhere _secluded_? Because I am in dire need to talk to you.”

Varys’s face goes pale in the scarce moonlight, blood instantly draining from it, and of course it would, because _who_ even reacts to this kind of thing with composure? But thankfully, instead of calling him mad or asking for help, he nods and motions for Jon to follow until they go back into the castle and Varys turns into what looks a small door in the kitchen’s direction and then leads into a long tunnel instead.

Of course, it would.

Jon follows Varys until they stop in a small recess underground – it’s cold and damp and miserable and the only light is Varys’s torch, but it’s definitely quiet, secluded and private.

“Is this secluded enough for you?” Varys asks.

“It is. And I’ll be brief. Yes, I’m Jon Connington. If you’re wondering how and why I’m this old and short an arm, it’s because I come from _the future_.”

“… My lord,” Varys says, slowly. “The voice is the same. The _eyes_ are the same. Your face is – well, if you look, it’s obvious that it’s the same. But such a story –”

“I need you to listen to me, Varys, the same way you wanted _me_ to listen when you approached me outside in the gardens on the night Rhaegar married and you let me understand you _knew_ I was in love with him.”

Fuck, he hasn’t ever said it out loud like _this_ , but –

Varys’s face turns even paler – right now it’s bordering on ashen. “ _No one_ saw me –”

“That’s because _I was there_ and that’s how I convinced _myself_ to listen to me. Now, Lord Varys, _please_ do listen to me because I don’t have much time and I really do need your help. Actually, the entire realm needs it.”

Varys nods and listens as Jon tells him everything, leaving out the fact that Brienne and Lannister were involved back in their timeline because he doesn’t need to know _that_ and use it as leverage, and by the time he’s done, Varys looks like he might faint.

“If – if what you say is true –”

“It _is_. I haven’t lost an arm for bloody nothing. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, Rhaegar thinks he’s doing the best for the realm, and he technically _is_ , but he’s going at it _wrongly_ , and this rebellion won’t help things, and the boy – the _three-eyed crow –_ _did_ say that there was more than one future he tried to look at.”

“And?”

“And, things only worked out in _one_ of them. _One_. Which is why I cannot leave anything to chance, and neither can the lady.”

“Right. Lady _Rohanne_ , or should I say –”

“Lady _Brienne_ of Tarth,” Jon sighs, “but _no one_ has to know.”

“Good gods,” Varys whispers, “Lord Selwyn’s last daughter is named –”

“Yes, it’s _her_ , just very much grown up. Now, we do have a plan. What I need you for, is to make sure everything goes _as it should_.”

“As in?”

At least he’s hearing Jon out. Good. “The plan is, I’ll be going to the Stoney Sept with an army and with… myself, I suppose, _and_ with Rhaegar in time to meet Ned Stark instead of trying to lure Robert out and lose time and men and strength. In between me, _myself_ , hopefully Arthur Dayne and so on, we will manage to convince Rhaegar that he wants a truce and not a war, and if we are lucky and convincing and talk reason into all of them, they will agree on finding a solution that requires stripping Aerys of his crown and putting Rhaegar in his place.”

“Didn’t you say Aerys has to die and Lannister has to do it?”

“Brienne is in charge of making sure that happens, but at the same time, you will receive an anonymous raven saying that the negotiations failed and Rhaegar is dead so that Aerys loses control and they have an excuse to actually kill him without Lannister losing his head for it. And the first thing I need you to do is _making sure he doesn’t lose his head for a mistake_ after it’s found out that the raven lied.”

“But –”

“My younger self will, too. No one here wants Lannister to die for it. _Clear_?”

“Clear,” Varys says, resigned. “Is that all?”

“No. In _my_ time, Gregor Clegane killed Elia and Rhaenys and a baby you had swapped for Aegon at the last moment.”

“You told me.”

“In _this_ timeline, Elia has to live. Along with _all_ her children. So, I don’t think that if our truce stands Lannister would attack King’s Landing, but if he ever does – you hid Aegon only one time. You _have_ to hide all three of them if Clegane ever sets foot in King’s Landing. Don’t give me any horseshit about it being impossible – we’re under a tunnel that only _you_ know of, probably. I don’t care if you have to hide them in the least famed brothel in King’s Landing, they have to be _out_ of the Red Keep if Ser Gregor ever comes close to it. Understood?”

Varys stares at him for a long moment, but then he nods once, curtly. “My lord, I can recognize you just by the temper. Very well, I swear I will attend to the princess.”

“Good, because if they die, we’re done for. _All_ of us. It’s not just about Elia or Rhaegar or Lyanna Stark, is about the entire realm.”

“I can hear it in your voice,” Varys sighs, sounding troubled but not as if he wants to contradict him. “And I’m not sure I even want to know what I would be avoiding. I have a feeling it’s in those same books Prince Rhaegar read a long time ago.”

“If anything, you always were quick on the uptake, Lord Varys. Also, let the lady know that if she needs help, she might ask you.”

“And _how_ should I help her?”

“I don’t know, but the moment I leave along with _myself_ she won’t have anyone to turn to and she might want to know _someone_ would be able to help her out, if she needed anything.”

“So what, I am your contingency plan?”

Jon _has_ to laugh at that. “You might be, Lord Varys.”

The other man thinks about it, then sighs wearily. “Fair enough. Will you let her know or should I?”

Good question. He doesn’t know if he’ll have any chances to talk to Brienne in private, especially if Aerys decides to _further punish_ Lannister by keeping him in Elia’s chambers.

“I will try, but – tell her yourself anyway. Just in case I cannot.”

“Very well. Is this conversation over?”

“Yes,” Jon says at once – it is. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

“Well, you’re helping out, or you’re saying you are, and I suppose I can’t ask for more than that. Just – let her know.”

Varys nods again and nods towards the way they came from.

Jon understands the message and leaves him be, heading back towards the exit of the tunnel, and wondering _what else_ is he supposed to do now. Whent won’t be back at all and he can’t expect any raven to reach them from the Tower of Joy for a long time if it ever reaches them _before_ they have to leave.

Gods, it’s going to be at least two weeks before they do – Whent and the maester won’t get to the Tower of Joy before then _if_ they change horses throughout the entire trip, travel part of the journey by river and exhausts themselves, so it’s likely they won’t for longer, and from the Tower of Joy to the Stoney Sept it’s a _hell_ of a long time.

Thing is, if he remembers right, and he thinks he _does_ , Ned Stark isn’t going to get there for a good month at least, probably longer, so their timing is good, but –

 _But_ it means he has to spend two weeks _at least_ in the palace, and won’t that be hilarious when the last thing he does is being seen along his younger counterpart long enough to raise suspicions? Varys _did_ notice, when prompted. Granted, not everyone is Varys, but still –

He resolves to _not_ be around his counterpart as much as he can handle.

\--

That evening, he’s invited to dine with Aerys.

He’s thankfully put near Elia and not near _himself_.

He can see Brienne standing behind both Aerys and _himself_ with the pale face of someone who regrets _all_ of their life choices, while Lannister is sending her occasional pitying looks, as if he knows exactly what she’s going through but he can’t do anything about it.

Jon doesn’t dare sneak out of his room that night, and he sleeps very, very badly.

\--

The next day, he considers not even showing up for breakfast, but he does. Lannister is still outside the door, casting a glance on Elia and the children once in a while. Aerys isn’t there.

Brienne isn’t either.

\--

He doesn’t dare join his younger self for _any_ meeting of the Small Council, not after he said his piece, and maybe he should have, because then he thinks, _will Rhaegar understand how urgent it is that he leave Dorne and join us?_

Jon _should_ know he will and would, because after all isn’t he doing all of this for the third head of the dragon to come into the world? Of course he is, and so he _should_ come at once if he’s warned that he might lose his own life for it, but still –

Still, he hadn’t even thought about it back in the day. His younger counterpart isn’t doing it either, most probably, but _what good_ was in going so far from the capital, to bloody _Dorne_ , instead of – taking the girl as his lover or a _second wife_ or anything that wouldn’t have caused a damned war?

Rhaegar never was _this_ rash or irrational. Jon would know, he’s known him for _years_ –

And still.

He only ever came back from the Tower _after_ Jon lost everything, didn’t he?

 _He should be here_ , a small voice tells him. _He should have been here all along_.

It’s not even mid-morning and he’s in dire need of passing out drunk, he thinks.

He shakes his head, stands up from the bed and decides that there’s nothing forbidden in taking a stroll in the gardens or maybe outside the Red Keep.

Though in that case he should maybe leave a warning.

He settles for the gardens, which seem fairly empty all things considered –

That is, until he runs into Princess Rhaenys, who’s also running across the garden and slams right into his leg.

“Sorry!” She says sheepishly, as –

As Jaime Lannister shows up just behind her.

“No harm done, Princess,” Jon tells her, shakily.

“Ser Roland,” Lannister tells him, nodding, as he takes a breath of relief seeing that the young lady is unharmed. “Sorry about that. It seems like I cannot quite run so fast _with an armor on_ ,” he says, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. He sounds relieved?

Hells, he looks a year younger than he did when they showed up, and he’s been away from Aerys how long, _two days_?

“Ser Jaime,” Jon nods back. “I see that you aren’t… with the king?”

Jaime shakes his head. “He seemed to think I need a prolonged _lesson in humility_ ,” he says, shrugging. “So I’m paying the princess company for a while, it seems.”

Rhaenys lets out a very unladylike laugh, as if she’s absolutely not unhappy.

“You don’t seem very gutted about it,” Jon says, cautiously.

“Ser, quite honestly?” He comes closer, dropping his voice so that no one hears them. “I’d be glad to learn this lesson for however long I have left in the King’s service, at this point. Even if it’d be unfair to the poor lady,” he admits, sounding halfway guilty about it.

Suddenly, they both freeze.

If he hasn’t just heard a faint scream coming from the throne room then Jon’s ears are as badly off as his arm, and given Lannister’s ashen face, he’s not the only one who’s heard.

He’s not sure he wants to know whatever Brienne has just witnessed inside that room, and from Lannister’s expression, he doesn’t want to know either.

Lannister excuses himself a moment later, quickly making sure the young princess is with him and then leading her back inside.

Good gods, _she could be his sister_ , he thinks helplessly, and he feels suddenly his stomach clench in guilt as he recalls that he barely ever spared that girl a thought after he had to leave Westeros, and even after he took on raising her brother.

It’s not as if he can go find _himself_ and explain him how and why he should have actually _cared_ , and so he runs after Lannister.

“Ser Jaime?”

“Yes?”

“Can – can I ask you a courtesy?”

“If it’s in my power, of course.”

“Just – I need to go on an errand in the city. If you see the Hand of the King, can you tell him that?”

“Of course. Should I tell you where he’ll find you?”

Jon thinks about it for a moment.

Then –

“If he needs to find me, he’ll know. Tell him I said that.”

“Very well,” Lannister agrees.

Good.

He needs to be _out of here already_.

\--

“Isn’t it a bit _too early_ for this?”

 _Look at that,_ Jon thinks as he downs the last of his second ale. _He_ didn’t lose any time.

“It’s barely midday,” Jon shrugs. “And I needed a distraction.”

“A _distraction_. You know that I’m hanging this entire plan on _your_ information and the last thing anyone needs is finding you in an inn in Flea Bottom drinking away _whatever is your problem_?”

Jon looks up at himself and smiles sadly – it’s not as if he’s even drunk.

“Don’t you worry,” he says, “I’m nowhere near a pathetic state. Not even close.”

“Fine, and _why the hell are you even here_?”

“I needed to get out of there,” Jon shrugs. “I had forgotten how pleasurable was to listen to Aerys’s business from outside that room.”

“ _What_?”

“Right. I could barely even notice, back then. I guess _you_ can barely even notice.”

“You’re making no sense.”

“Aerys is _burning people alive_ in front of him,” Jon shrugs, “and that poor girl is there staring at it and she’s probably thinking that it’s a good thing _she_ is and Lannister is not.”

“About _that_ ,” his younger self says, “ _what_ the hell is going on with her and Lannister? No one without any stakes is that eager to take on that bloody job.”

Jon shrugs. “They were in love,” he says. “Back when we come from.”

He _does_ expect the laugh. “ _Sorry_ , what?”

“Why,” Jon says, “you think she’s too ugly for him? Don’t you worry, he can look beyond that, and so will _we_. Or better, so will _you_ , in a few years, if this entire thing doesn’t work out and you end up the way I did.”

“ _Excuse me_?”

Jon laughs. “Didn’t you hear me out the first time? Aerys exiled me. Let’s not say _you_ , yet. Before Varys found me and I had to pretend to have fallen in disgrace to raise Aegon in secret, I was in the Golden Company. I imagine you’ve never met Myles Toyne, since I had _not_ at that point either, but I can assure you that he didn’t look fair, either.”

“Are you telling me that –”

“I’m telling you that sometimes you take what little you can find and it turns out that he didn’t dislike male company, once in a while. I think his nose was about as pretty as the lady’s and his jaw was even uglier, but he was a good man and honestly, in the dark or not, it didn’t even matter. He wasn’t Rhaegar, but he was hardly a penance to spend time with. So I wouldn’t pass judgment if I were you. Anyway, she was in love with him then and she is _now_ , of course she has stakes in trying to keep him alive.”

His younger self doesn’t look _too_ happy to hear that news.

“Don’t worry,” Jon adds, “we never _love_ anyone else. _Being_ _with_ _other people_ is an entire other problem.”

“You’re talking bloody nonsense,” comes as a reply, but the tone is weak and Jon can hear it.

“No, I’ve never talked so much sense in my life. Never mind that. So I needed a drink. So _what_?”

He stares at himself for a long moment, and then he sees his younger face scowl and his head shake a couple of times before standing up. “Just pull yourself together before you come back. And don’t you dare _not_ come back.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jon assures, and he watches his younger self leave.

He finishes his ale.

He thinks, _should I go back?_

He _should_. But he doesn’t want to. Not yet, not when his breath probably smells like alcohol and not when he hadn’t thought _having a chance to save Rhaegar_ would mean – _this_.

Shit.

He stands up, pays for his drinks and heads for Flea Bottom. Hopefully, his younger self is _not_ going to risk paying a visit here, even if he does know the place – he _would_ , since he’s an occasional client, and –

Thing is: he never _liked_ it, and it always made him feel worse than he started because _no one could be Rhaegar_ , but he has (had?) needs and it’s not as if he ever had any chances to satisfy them otherwise back in the day.

It was easier in the Golden Company, a _lot_ easier, when you could make it pass for making do with what you had and women were scarce. Not that _any_ man in the Golden Company ever looked like Rhaegar, and not like any man he ever bedded in _here_ who did somehow bear a passing resemblance ever made him feel in any way better after he was done, he thinks, coming closer to the brothel’s door.

He knocks and waits – it’s not a very well-known establishment, after all. Some young man opens the door not long later and Jon says that he’s an edge knight passing through and that he’s learned of this place’s business from an old friend who used to be a client (he actually learned from Oberyn Martell, who made no mystery of what establishments he liked to visit) and that he can pay for some company.

His money is deemed good enough and he’s brought in, and the owner asks him if he has a preference.

Once, he used to say, _blonde and blue-eyed_ , even if it was a preference that couldn’t be satisfied most of the time and it only made him feel worse about the entire situation.

Now he says, “Just someone who won’t have problems with the arm. The closer to my age, the better.”

He’s not sure he wants to forget his problems by fucking someone who looks like Rhaegar and who’d be that much younger than he is. Actually, he feels half-sick at the prospect, and he’s relieved to see that he’s presented with a man who must be around thirty (maybe a bit younger, but he’s admittedly older than average in this business), with chestnut hair and eyes and who absolutely does _not_ look like Rhaegar.

“Will he do?” The owner asks.

“How much do I owe you?” Jon replies, and hands him the money in advance.

\--

It’s probably somewhat ironic that when Jon asks, he says his name is Eddard.

Good thing he doesn’t look like Ned Stark either – no gray eyes, just plain hazel. The owner was at least truthful about the arm issue, since there’s no disgusted face pulled at the sight of it, either.

“Can I ask what happened?”

Jon figures there’s no point in refusing to reply – he never said a thing to the previous men he ever ended up bedding for money and that’s not what he wants right now.

“War wound,” he lies. “It was either cutting it off or dying.”

“I see,” and at least he sounds understanding of it.

Gods, Jon can’t remember the last time he bedded anyone. Sure as the seven hells, _properly_ , he hasn’t since taking Aegon in, and how could he have?

“So, Ser…?”

“Roland,” Jon says.

“ _Ser Roland_. How do you want me?”

Jon considers it.

The last thing he needs is actually having to worry about where to put his goddamned arm.

He shrugs, takes off his cloak and lies down on the bed, shrugging ever so slightly. “Like this.”

Eddard whistles softly. “It’s not a very common request, Ser.”

“Some of us like it both ways,” Jon shrugs.

“Fair enough,” Eddard replies, and Jon kicks off his shoes.

\--

It’s better than it used to be back in the day – or, better than Jon _remembers_ it being. It’s not anything that will change his life, and it doesn’t feel _good_ the way it did with Myles back in the day, and it’s definitely _not_ the fantasy he used to have when it came to Rhaegar, and _that_ , he knew, would never happen for real, but he relishes not having to do _anything_ , it’s certainly not a _bad_ fuck nor one he doesn’t enjoy, and having someone that’s not _himself_ touching what’s left of his damned arm certainly hasn’t hurt. By the time he’s spent and looking up at the ceiling trying to regain his breath he feels somewhat relieved, slightly more sober and he _has_ spent his time not thinking about the utter disaster waiting for him at the Red Keep.

“So, are you satisfied with the service?”

“Very much,” Jon replies, no point in lying. “Do you think I can get a bath before I leave?”

“For couple stags more I can give you one.”

“Do you ask everyone that question?”

Eddard _does_ laugh at that. “Only the clients who let me be on top, I suppose.”

Jon sorts. “Well, those stags are yours if you want to earn them.”

Not that he couldn’t have done it on his own, but having _someone else_ massaging his shoulders while he bathed turns out being a fairly good idea, or at least so his muscles say.

\--

He dresses and eventually hands over five stags.

“I imagine there’s no way you’ll be a regular client?”

“Maybe I’ll come back,” Jon says, feeling strangely flattered. “Why, am I better than average?”

He doesn’t even know why he’s having this conversation.

Maybe he just _doesn’t want to go back_ , not yet.

“Well, you don’t have… exceedingly complicated tastes, Ser, and as stated, I do enjoy it if I don’t have to stare at the pillow all the time. And you pay well. It’s _a lot_ better than average.”

Jon figures he has a point.

He doesn’t know how he should feel about it.

\--

What he knows is that it’s sunset when he comes back to the Red Keep, his younger self has to guess immediately where he’s been because he just _glares_ at him and says nothing, Brienne is nowhere to be seen because Aerys has decided to dine in his own quarters and the moment he sees Lannister looking _overjoyed_ to help the princess cut her meat he feels like throwing up.

\--

He finally gets to exchange a few words with Brienne the next day – he risks waiting outside the White Tower at night until he sees her come towards him.

She looks like she’s barely slept a wink in the last few days.

“I can’t stay long,” he whispers. “But – how badly are you doing?”

“Why, not asking me _how_ I’m doing?” She replies, but she sounds somewhat relieved to be actually _talking to someone_.

“I know how he is,” Jon says, “no point in pretending it’s going well.”

She shrugs. “It’s – horrible,” she admits, “but I’m fine. I knew. And _he_ ’s not keeping me company, so as long as he’s not – I’m fine.”

 _You’re not_ , Jon wants to say, _and neither am I_. Also, he’s not surprised that it turns out he was right all along.

“If anything,” he says, “he seems to appreciate the reprieve. That said – I don’t know when I’m leaving, but I told Varys.”

“ _What_?”

“I had to. If I leave and no one else knows – let’s just say that if you’re in trouble, _he_ ’s someone you want to have on your side. He said he’d contact you as soon as he could, but in case you need any help, he knows. Just ask him and don’t do anything stupid.”

“All – all right,” she accepts, nodding. “And how are _you_ doing?”

“I could do worse,” he replies truthfully. “Right. I should go. Just – ask him if you need help, all right?”

“I will,” she replies quietly. “Thank you.”

 _As if you should be thanking me_ , he thinks as she disappears inside the Tower. He leaves, not wanting Lannister to see him in case he’s around, but he shouldn’t be.

That night, he hopes to at least sleep without dreams, but when he wakes up in the morning it’s with the horribly, clear memory of how Jon Snow’s sword did _not_ burn with bright light and it did _not_ pierce the breast of the wight who killed him.

He wants to vomit. He heads down to break his fast instead, and he does before anyone else is in the hall because it’s too early –

And he would have just gone back to his room to further plan if he wasn’t told that he _had_ to be in front of the Iron Throne in an hour’s time.

\--

Turns out, Aerys has _seemingly_ found two rebel spies in between the serving staff. It’s probably _not_ the truth, not from the way the two poor maids swear to hell and back that they haven’t even seen Robert Baratheon in their life – he’s convinced that they tried to poison him and Jon remembers that there was no trial to be had in these cases.

He looks at his own impassive younger face so to try to not pay too much attention to how the poor girls scream as their clothes catch fire – he _knows_ he’s thinking that this is all for Rhaegar and whatever keeps him alive is worth it, and _gods it is_ , but –

But maybe he’s seen too much to be able to shrug it away just like this.

Brienne is looking horrified, he notices, but she’s still as stone. The princess is without the children, _thankfully_ , and she’s trying to not let anything show on her face but she obviously doesn’t want to be here at all.

Everyone else is just looking downwards, except for Jaime Lannister who’s staring straight at the flames, but the moment Jon notices that he looks like he’s thinking about something else completely and that his eyes are so blank they might as well belong on some finely made doll’s, he feels like throwing up all over again.

And then they all wondered _why_ would Lannister stick a sword in Aerys’s back, he thinks with a shudder.

\--

The room still smells like burning flesh when, not long later, Ser Darry arrives from whatever recon mission it was that he had been sent on – no, he says, there were no Baratheon spies to be found in the village he had been told to check, yes, he’s sure of it. Aerys declares himself satisfied, informs him of _Rohanne_ ’s newfound role – Jon notices how Ser Darry doesn’t look _at all_ in agreement with the idea, but he doesn’t dare suggest that she should go ward the women and children _in front of Elia Martell_ – and then tells him that he should talk to the Hand and to _Ser Roland_ to see about his new orders.

Jon is relieved when they’re given leave to discuss it outside – all bar Brienne, of course.

In between the two of them, they do explain Darry the basics of the plan.

“Whent is on his way to the Tower of Joy,” Jon finally tells him. “He and the prince should join us at the Stoney Sept in a month’s time, or a bit longer I suppose.”

“How do you know _that_ is when Ned Stark will get there, Ser?” Darry asks him, sounding cautious but not as if he sees anything _wrong_ with the plan.

“I traveled with a few rebel soldiers on the way here from White Harbor, and I heard enough when I was there in the first place,” Jon says. “They did say when they were planning to attack, but they also were putting forces together and as far as I saw, they _couldn’t_ be ready before then.”

 _And I know because I was bloody there_ , he doesn’t say.

“Fair enough. What should I do?”

“Well,” present-time Jon says, taking back the reins of the conversation, “you shall come with us, I suppose. We leave two weeks from now, we’ll take it slow and recruit as many people as we can on the way. For now, just follow your usual orders.”

“My – my lord?”

Wait – oh. That’s Lannister.

“Yes?” His younger self asks.

Jon takes a better look at Lannister and understands at once _what_ he might want to ask. He looks impossibly young in his white armor and cloak, his forehead covered in cold sweat and dark bags under his eyes.

“I wouldn’t want to presume or mess with your plan, but I was wondering – after you’re gone, the only _knights_ around will be the lady and myself. Maybe – if you don’t need Ser Darry, maybe he could stay as well? Three would be better than two.”

For – it was very politely put, and it was obvious that he was trying and failing to sound as if it was a mere suggestion, but Jon isn’t an idiot. That wasn’t a humble suggestion or request, that’s downright _pleading_ , and for a moment he thinks, _so what? In case Darry could just guard the princess. Maybe it’s not necessary that the two of them are alone with the king_ , but before either Jon or _himself_ can reply, Darry lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Lannister, you asked the prince already and he said no, and I was there to hear it. Did you think it was some kind of game when you swore your vows? When you donned that cloak, you promised to obey them, not to weasel out of them.”

Lannister, at that, looks like someone just physically punched him in the face. “Of course. I know. Never mind, my lord, I never said anything.”

Then he bows and turns his back on them. Jon is _really_ tempted to ask Darry whether he _had_ to be that much of an arse when telling Lannister that, then he decides it’s not his place.

“Well then, Ser. You will be told when you should get ready to leave.”

Darry bows and heads back for the throne room.

Jon really should keep his mouth shut, but –

“He _could_ have been nicer,” he says.

“Well, it’s not my place or yours to tell him, and the situation is precarious as it is.”

“Fine, and – gods, never mind that. Am I needed somewhere?”

“Not before tomorrow’s council. Why?”

“Good. I need to be out of here.”

“I hope not drinking yourself to death.”

“No,” Jon says, and since when does he sound _this_ tired? “It’s in the _other_ place you might know where to find me, if needed.”

Suddenly, an iron grip closes on his good arm. “Are you _mad_? If anyone finds you there –”

“They didn’t yesterday. They didn’t _when I was you_. Don’t worry, they won’t now.”

He leaves, heading out in the direction Lannister went before.

Jon stops and carefully goes the opposite way when he sees Lannister leaning against a wall on the way to the princess’s chambers.

He’s almost sure he’s trying to put himself back together or to _not_ cry or something of the kind, and he’s entirely sure no one else was meant to witness it.

He leaves the castle feeling like his stomach turned into lead.

\--

“Do you have any _different_ preferences, today?” The brothel’s owner asks.

“Actually,” Jon tells him, handing him a stag more than what he paid yesterday, “if the same man you had the last time I was here is available, I’d rather have him.”

“I think he’s not currently with anyone,” the owner says with a sly smile that Jon doesn’t much like, but he’s seen enough of his kind to know it’s common to anyone in his line of work.

Turns out, he wasn’t wrong.

\--

“Ser Roland. I see you weren’t just passing through, were you?”

“No,” Jon confirms. “I might have to stay for a bit longer.”

“Very well then. And how would you want me today?”

“The same way I did last time,” Jon says, kicking off his shoes. “And if you want to be rougher, I’m not going to complain.”

“Why,” Eddard says, smiling in a way that doesn’t look _entirely_ professional, “sounds like I’m going to have a better time than you, no offense intended.”

“At least one of us would,” Jon sighs, and falls back down on the cushions.

\--

It’s true – he gets relief well enough, and he doesn’t _like_ it, but he did ask for it, and at least if it’s painful it’s breaking through his current bloody need to just go back to sleep and wake up ten years from now.

\--

He asks for another bath, he doesn’t want to be in the Red Keep smelling like he asked a commoner whore who’s probably too old for this job to fuck him until he almost passed out.

“Am I still the kind of client you want to have twice?” He asks as he slips his boots on again, refusing help for it.

“Unless my instincts are failing me, Ser, you’re the kind of client a man would like to have more than once.”

It’s not that it makes him feel better – now that’d be pathetic.

But at least he can delude himself that _someone_ is profiting from his stint in the past, because right now until he sees Rhaegar alive and safe, he’s not sure _anyone_ is.

\--

He gets through another council meeting, another day without news from the south – and of course there wouldn’t be –, another day of hearing people screaming from behind the door containing the Iron Throne, Aerys and _Brienne_ , and another day of noticing Lannister staring at Darry as if he desperately wants to ask him to reconsider.

He doesn’t.

Jon doesn’t want to even conceive it, but –

_Why did Rhaegar ever think this was a good idea?_

He should have left Dayne here, he thinks. He should have, and then again, hadn’t Dayne died so that Ned Stark wouldn’t get to his sister, who was –

Who was _dying_?

He never even _thought_ about that, because it was useless and everyone involved was dead and it made no sense to torture himself further, but each way he looks at it, he doesn’t see how it was a viable plan, or a sensed one.

Gods, Rhaegar _wasn’t_ such an idiot. _Dayne_ wasn’t such an idiot. What in the seven hells were they thinking, the both of them? And back then – _now_ – he hadn’t even spared a thought for Lyanna Stark because why would he, she was the same as Elia Martell to him, as in, someone who didn’t deserve Rhaegar and got him anyway when he could have never dreamed of it, but –

The girl is six and ten, pregnant and on top of a damned tower in the middle of nowhere, she’s dying of it, and Dayne _fights her brother_?

He kind of hopes Dayne comes with Rhaegar just to ask him if it actually had been a plan from the beginning should Rhaegar have died.

Or maybe he doesn’t want to know, because the person he _loves_ wouldn’t have done this –

Would he?

He glances at Elia and her children, on the other side of the table.

His food feels like lead as he swallows it.

\--

“So, I am the only person who comes here who’d rather not fuck you senseless?” Jon asks the next time he goes to the darned brothel – he let a few days pass, but the atmosphere in the Red Keep is so heavy you could cut it with a knife and the more he sees _himself_ and Lannister and _everyone else_ the more he wants to scream.

He might as well have a conversation, since he pays for his time.

“The only _man_ for sure,” Eddard replies casually, covering himself with the bedsheet. “Most men who come here are from the golden cloaks anyway. Not many of them are interested in taking it up the ass, sorry to say.”

“Why, you also trade in women?”

“ _Some_ do come here.” He shrugs. “I’m good with both, though I do have a preference for men. That said, I doubt I have much left in this trade.”

“Why would that be?” Jon asks, sitting up. His back hurts, damn it. Good thing he has practice dressing with just one hand.

“Most _men_ prefer their whores a lot younger than I am and this place is not for _women_ , ser. Too bad, because it’s steady employment and pays well enough.”

“That’s why someone with a northern name is _here_?”

“Well, you’re observant, if anything. No, my father was northern and my mother was from King’s Landing. And what does a hedge knight from the Stormlands do here for longer than a week?”

Jon snorts. “Seems like I’m not the only observant one. And I’m afraid I cannot say.”

“Fair. I did try asking. Nonetheless, I’ll be here a while longer, I suppose.”

 _Good_ , Jon thinks, _because I might need your services for a while longer if I’m not leaving tomorrow_.

Who’d have thought that he’d actually _miss_ bedding people.

Too bad he has to pay for it, but you can’t always get what you want, he figures, and doesn’t he _know_ that.

\--

“You need to stop.”

Now _that_ wasn’t something he’d have ever imagined coming from _himself_.

“Doing what? Drowning my sorrows in Flea Bottom’s less notorious establishment?”

He feels a pang of nostalgia looking at his own younger face scowling at him, and his own younger eyes, and his own _two_ arms crossing over his chest.

“ _Drowning your sorrows_. I’m not though, am I?”

“Because _you_ have no idea of what we’re doing,” Jon sighs. “But never mind. I didn’t have either, the first time around. And it’s a good thing that at least _one_ of us isn’t thinking about the ramifications of _what the hell_ we’re doing, so just let me drown my damned sorrows. I can assure you no one is going to know.”

“Oh, yes, with Aerys sending men everywhere to _check for spies_ that most likely don’t even exist, you absolutely can be sure _no one is going to know_?”

“Well, I can’t stay here all day if I want to keep my wits about myself.”

“I don’t remember being this overtly dramatic, you know. Do I become like this with time or _what_?”

“No,” Jon says, “you don’t. But you work towards a goal for more than ten years of your life just to fail all over the place and then you come back here to try and fix it and you realize _everything_ you got wrong and you can’t do much to fix that.”

“Isn’t _fixing it_ what we’re fucking doing until now?”

“Oh, we’re _averting the end of the world_ , and Rhaegar’s death because if he dies there’s no going on, but let me tell you, did you ever spare a thought about what was going to happen to Elia? Or to the Stark girl? Up until now?”

“ _Why_ should I?”

“That’s _my damned point_. I remember not caring, and now I’m here and they’re both alive, and Rhaenys is, too, and I remember not even caring a whim for how they ended up because _they weren’t Rhaegar_ , and I’m sure you’re not thinking about Lyanna Stark because _she_ ’s the reason Rhaegar’s not here, and I hadn’t either, but that girl will most likely die giving him a son who _died in front of my own damned eyes_ trying to save us all when he wasn’t even nine and ten, and Arthur Dayne’s going to die trying to prevent Ned Stark to get up that tower _while she’s dying_. And maybe I’m changing this, maybe not, but I utterly and completely ignored it when I was _you_ , am I allowed to feel bad about it or not?”

 _That_ at least makes his counterpart look slightly sorry, as if he hadn’t exactly taken that into account, but Jon _knows_ he hadn’t. Because _he_ hadn’t, back in the day.

“Never mind that Lannister didn’t deserve any of this shit and we all know it.”

“Oh, don’t tell me this is about –”

“ _Yes_ , it’s also about Darry. Was there any need to be that – that _terrible_ to him?”

“Well, he _did_ make a choice.”

“A very badly informed one, and he’s _seven and ten_. Given where it brings him, I’d like to think that being somewhat more understanding towards his plight might’ve helped. Never mind that. Don’t worry, I’m being way more careful than _you_ used to be when you did the same thing.”

“I don’t – not as often.” He _doesn’t_ try to deny it, though. “And it was just when it was unbearable. Not _every other day_.”

“Good thing _I_ am not the Hand of the King this time,” Jon scoffs. “Again, I’m being careful. And I’ll be ready when we leave.”

“Good, because it’s in a week, give or take. You’d better be.”

 _Well_ , he thinks as his younger self leaves, _that could have gone better_.

\--

He _does_ try to be extra careful. He only sneaks out headed for Flea Bottom twice in the next week, both times during the day but not when he might be asked for, and the one time he decides he doesn’t just want to lie down and take it, the last, he takes care to not be too rough and he _doesn’t_ resolutely close his eyes and imagine it’s Rhaegar below him as he used to back in the day.

It just – it feels _wrong_ , and maybe that was why back in the day he never could find any satisfaction in whores, though at least he _could_ bed them if they weren’t women (the one time he tried is a time he wishes he could forget). This time– this time is better, still not ideal, but _better_ , and as he dresses after giving himself a thorough wash, he doesn’t feel like going back.

But he has to.

“So,” he asks, “I suppose you didn’t appreciate the change?”

“Ser, there’s no harm in enjoying it both ways. And you were fairly considerate, so you’re still the kind of client a man wouldn’t turn away.”

Jon snorts and considers it, then puts three gold dragons on the nightstand.

He doesn’t miss how Eddard’s hazel eyes take a fairly shocked expression at that.

“Ser, _what_ –”

“I’m leaving in a couple of days,” he says, “I’m with the king’s army. As much as they can use _me_ , anyhow. If you’re not in this line of work for much longer, I guess you should try to start saving, and I don’t really need that money.”

“No one doesn’t _need_ gold dragons.”

“I beg to differ. If we have to fight, I don’t even know if it’s likely that I should survive. Really, do take them.”

“Fine, but if you start with that attitude, you _are_ going to die for sure.”

“We shall see.”

“Fair, but if I were you I’d try to stay alive. If anything, it’d be hardly courteous to wish the contrary when you’ve been more than.”

Jon has to laugh at that. “I doubt it, but I don’t really know who am I comparing against.”

“Well, no one complains about how generous you are with your _dragons_ , but most people _do_ close their eyes, when I’m under them.”

Jon feels a pang in his chest thinking of what he used to do when he came _here_ , a long time ago.

“Then I guess I could be worse.”

“You definitely could. Try not to die, ser, you don’t look like someone whose life is over.”

 _How wrong you are_ , Jon thinks as he leaves, but at least it was nice to hear it, he supposes.

No, his life _is_ over the moment he’s sure Rhaegar lives. He’ll have fulfilled his purpose, and he’ll have done what he came here for, and then – then he doesn’t know, but what had Bran Stark said?

_If you live, you will find yourself in that world, at the age you have right now. And I know that it won’t be one where the Long Night has prevailed._

He doesn’t know if he wants to find himself _in place of his current younger self_ some seventeen years from now. It wouldn’t change much for Brienne because after all she’s barely _born_ in this world, but his – his younger self is certainly not so, and as much as he hates seeing all his old mistakes written in _his_ face, he’d hate to just close his eyes and wake up inside _him_ , not when that man probably has had a life beyond whatever Jon will try to accomplish. Never mind that he’ll be at the Stoney Sept when Aerys dies, if everything goes according to plan, so how would he even reach that tree _as soon as they did the deed?_ Bloody unlikely.

Gods, the more he thinks about this mess, the more he wants to drink until he passes out, the way he was supposed to in that unflattering story about his exile that he and Varys came up with.

But no.

No, tomorrow he’ll leave for the Stoney Sept, where he’ll try to make sure everything goes according to plan, where he’ll hopefully see Rhaegar live because that’s the one reason he’s doing _everything_ he’s doing and the one reason that’s driven his life until now, and he doesn’t regret it because Rhaegar was worth all of it and _more_ , and he’ll do his damned duty, and then –

Then he shall see.

But for now, he still has to make sure his part of the plan is brought to completion and he can’t afford to let anything else distract him to this point onwards.

\--

The next afternoon, an army twice bigger than the one he had when he tried to find Robert the first time around leaves from King’s Landing.

Ser Darry is in front along with Jon’s younger self, and Jon tries to not think about Lannister’s utterly wounded face as he watched them leave from the Red Keep a short while ago – of course it was. Aerys had just informed him that two weeks were long enough and he’d be back to his duties from the next day onwards. Brienne had looked physically pained at hearing it, but hadn’t moved an inch, and Jon had just felt horrible about the entire situation and had forced himself to think that all of this suffering _would_ be worth it, because –

Because at the end of it, Rhaegar would have lived. And patience if he won’t be able to be recognized or to tell his prince who he really is. As long as he lives, and as long as both he and Brienne do their duty, nothing else matters, whether he likes the circumstances or not.

He holds on tighter to the reins with his remaining hand and rides on. Hopefully, by now, Ser Whent isn’t too far from the Tower of Joy. Hopefully, Rhaegar won’t wait before coming. Hopefully, Brienne won’t need to ask Varys for any help. Hopefully, they’ll both succeed.

 _Hopefully_.

He’s not going to listen to the small voice telling him that there’s a bit too many _hopefully_ s in this plan and not enough _certainly_ s, and he rides on thinking that if anything he’ll see Rhaegar again and he did everything he could to protect all of his children, and if he accomplishes what he has to, then – _then_ he will die content.

Not before and not after.

 

 

TBC


	5. Brienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Brienne has a hard month and Jaime has, as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KDSHJGDSJGH SORRY GUYS DECEMBER AND *FOUR* FIC EXCHANGES AND STUFF HAPPENED so I had to put this on hold. BUT this new part is very long so I hope it makes up for it? ;_; I'm not making promises about when next one is coming up because it has, well, *plot*, but hopefully it'll be before a month. Anyway, for whoever wanted Brienne and Jaime finally having quality time together: HERE YOU GO I apologize for how much I'm making them suffer. Is2g it'll be worth it in the end.
> 
> Also: I added some new tags as warnings re specific content that happens in this chapter so please heed them but just in case, there's a part where you have what's pretty much a dissociative episode happening, don't say I didn't warn you. Aaand SORRY AGAIN FOR HOW LATE THIS WAS I hope this was worth the wait. /o\ *drops chapter and saunters back downwards*

It’s been three days since Jon left with the army.

 _Three days too long_ , Brienne thinks as she walks where she can see Princess Elia, her son and her daughter as they enjoy a walk in the gardens.

Of course, the moment Aerys decided that Jaime’s _lesson in humility_ was done, he had _her_ moved to guard _the women and children_ and Jaime’s back on Kingsguard duty, and she’s noticed even too well in the few times they ran into each other that the shadows under his eyes getting darker and his entire stance becoming wearier once again.

And fine, she hadn’t enjoyed guarding the man, _not at all_ , and she saw things she wishes she could forget in that week, but – but, she _could_ have handled it. She _could_.

Except that she can’t exactly contradict _Aerys_ now, can she?

She can’t. Gods, she can’t, and she hates every second of it, especially because she still can hear him during the night and he’s sleeping so badly, it can’t be healthy. But of course, it’s not – it wasn’t when she wasn’t here the first time round and it isn’t now.

Three days and she’s already itching to do something incredibly stupid, _and_ there’s no way Jon might send that raven _before one month_ at least.

 _Can I do this for one month?_ , she asks herself.

She has a very distinct feeling that the answer is _not_ , she thinks, and then the baby breaks out in tears.

“Lady Rohanne!” the princess calls, and Brienne runs up to her.

“My lady.”

“I think,” she says, “that he needs food. Could you look after Rhaenys for a moment, since she wanted to be out for a while? I shall be back soon.”

“Of – of course,” Brienne says. “Do go ahead, we’ll be here.”

Elia nods at her and walks inside the palace, a City Watch soldier immediately following after her.

All right. She looks down at the princess, suddenly feeling completely out of her element – she never was around _children_ much, not that young anyway, and having felt for years like having one would be entirely beyond her – it’s not as if _anyone_ would have wanted her for a wife if not for her lands, and the idea of having children for _duty_ always was abhorrent to her, and it’s not as if she could ever consider it with Jaime, right? She just – never really thought about it.

Except that she has now.

“Well,” she says, “is there some place in the garden my lady would like to visit?”

“I like the godswood,” she says, “but we never go there when Mother is with Aegon.”

“We can do it now,” Brienne says, figuring that there will be no harm. The godswood is within the Keep’s walls and she can take care of any problem that might arise.

Rhaenys smiles, looking delighted at the prospect, and she sets in the right direction when they both suddenly stop the moment they hear screaming coming from the throne room just above them.

Brienne’s been there long enough to entirely understand what’s going on – she’ll eat her own sword if someone’s not been set on fire just a moment ago, given that they _keep on screaming_.

Well, time to leave then, even if her first instinct is running there and doing something unsavory.

“We _really should go_ ,” Brienne says, and Rhaenys nods weakly as she walks quickly towards the godswood, but the mirth in her step is gone.

Of course it is.

\--

By the time they get there, the man hadn’t stopped screaming but they’re far enough to not hear him. Brienne follows the princess along the path, suddenly feeling slightly better in between trees that cover both their heads and provide some quiet, at least for the moment. She can see the heart tree in the distance, but Rhaenys isn’t hurrying there, and neither will she.

“Lady Rohanne. Can I ask you a question?” Rhaenys says suddenly.

“Of course,” Brienne replies at once. “Even two, if you like.”

She does smile a bit, even if weakly.

“Is Ser Jaime upstairs?”

Can she even lie? “I think so,” Brienne says truthfully. Of course he’s there. Why wouldn’t he be? Or better, where else would be be?

Rhaenys looks _plenty_ troubled at that.

Gods, she’s _four_ or barely so if she even is, and she already put two and two together when it came to how horrible her grandfather was, and _no one else could_ or pretended not to?

“Oh,” she says. “Do you sleep near each other?”

 _If only you knew_ , Brienne thinks sadly. “He has the room next to mine in the White Tower, yes,” Brienne says. “But we haven’t talked much until now. Should I bring him a message from you?”

Rhaenys suddenly perks up. “Would you?”

“Of course. Never mind that you’re a princess and I’m at _your_ orders, why shouldn’t I?”

Rhaenys shrugs. “It’s not nice. I mean, not for _you_. But I’m not supposed to say this kind of thing.”

Brienne has a very distinct feeling she won’t like whatever Rhaenys has to tell her, but has she liked _anything_ she’s seen since coming up here?

She stops and kneels down so that they’re at the same eye level, more or less – she’s still a bit taller but not _that_ much.

“I promise to not tell anyone if you’re worried about not being supposed to.”

“You wouldn’t tell Mother, too?”

“ _Anyone_. I’m a knight,” she says, _if only Jaime knew he knighted me himself_ , “and knights always keep their word.”

Rhaenys looks straight at her for a moment and then decides she must be trustworthy, because then she leans a bit closer.

“It’s, uh, Ser Jaime is… the only one in the guard who’s always happy when he’s with us. The others – they’re nice, but I know they don’t like us.”

Brienne _should_ probably tell her that it’s not true, but knowing what she knows and given what she’s seen, she has a hunch Rhaenys has the whole truth of it. So she says nothing.

“He always is. And I _hear_ things. They say the King is mad. And – I know what was happening before.”

Good gods, she’s _four_.

“So I just want to know how he is. Because he’s always _nice_ to us.”

“You and your brother?”

She nods. “I asked a few others.”

“Who?”

“Ser Whent and Ser Darry. They said he was fine something else –I didn’t understand. I asked them to tell him something from me. They weren’t even listening.”

Brienne doesn’t ask her if she’s sure. She has a feeling she would be insulting her intelligence if she did, and she remembers enough of how humiliating it felt when it happened to _her_ at the same age.

“I’m listening,” she says. “So, what should I tell him? That you hope he’s doing well?”

Rhaenys nods eagerly. “And that I hope he can come back to see us soon. Please.”

“Of course,” she says. “I will do that.”

Rhaenys smiles at her and then she stops herself, as if she realized she might have done something she shouldn’t.

“Oh,” she says, “Was I rude?”

“… You weren’t?” Brienne replies. “Why would you be?”

“I said I hoped he’d be back with us, soon. Then I guess it meant I don’t want _you_ here and it’s not true. Not really.”

Brienne _has_ to laugh at that, maybe for the first time in months. “My lady, I hadn’t even imagined you might mean _that_. It’s quite all right. After all, he was here first, wasn’t he? I won’t take it personally if you prefer _him_ to me.”

Especially because she can understand the feeling even too well.

“He was, I guess,” she says. “It’s just, he _listens_ if you talk to him. No one else in the guard does.”

“And he’ll run after you in the gardens?”

“How do you _know_?”

“I was in the throne room the previous week,” Brienne says, “I did look out of the window a few times.”

 _While your grandfather was doling judgment on poor bastards who he thought were spies_.

But she doesn’t need to know that.

“And I – I don’t know him much,” Brienne says, forcing herself to lie, “but he sounds like a great knight. I can see why you’d want to know.”

“So – will you tell?”

“Of course.”

“And you won’t tell I spoke badly of the others?”

 _If only you knew what I think of them_.

“I won’t,” she confirms. “Also because truth to be told, I think the same.”

“Really?”

She shrugs. “Let’s just say, Ser Jaime was the only person in the guard who didn’t hate the idea of me joining it.”

Rhaenys openly scoffs as she starts walking again, headed for the heart tree. “Are you better than them at swordfighting? Of course they would hate it. Well, if he likes you then he’s right.”

Brienne stands up feeling like she could cry all over again.

Gods, and this poor child had to _die_ like that, back –

Of course, Jaime felt guilty about not having been able to save her, her mother and her brother.

And of course, _her father_ is – not here.

If she ever sees Jon again, she’s going to _have_ to ask what he ever found so charming in Rhaegar Targaryen that he’d travel back in time just to save him.

For now, she has a duty to do, and she follows Rhaenys to the tree, feeling observed as she does, and wondering if she’s being paranoid or if Bran might be here checking on _her_ , at least.

She doesn’t know if she hopes he is or if she hopes he’s not.

\--

That evening, she waits for Jaime outside the door of her room – if she wants to relay that message, there’s no other way they might cross paths, for now.

“Lady Rohanne,” he greets her as he walks the stairs down the hallway. He looks tired. He looks _too_ tired. No one his age should be _this_ weary, she thinks for the umpteenth time, and he also looks ready to pass out as soon as he hits the bed. “Is there any reason you’re here, or can I get some damned sleep?”

She doesn’t let herself flinch. She can only imagine why he’s not happy to engage in any conversation.

Why would he be?

“I – I have a message for you.”

“ _You_ have a message from me?”

“From the princess,” Brienne says. “I mean, Princess Rhaenys.”

She can pinpoint the moment Jaime’s stance goes from guarded to slightly more relaxed, and he actually looks at her in the eyes when before he had been glancing behind her, at his room’s door.

“She has messages for me now? And what does it say?”

“That she hopes you’re doing fine and that – she can’t wait for you to spend some time with them again, I suppose.”

For a moment, he looks like he’s about to _cry_ , and then he shakes her head and obviously tries to pull himself together. “How good a liar are you?” He asks instead.

 _I never was much of one,_ she thinks, _but I learned, didn’t I?_

“I can do it,” she settles on.

“Then you can tell her I’m doing all right and I’m sure I will see her soon. None of that is true, but _she_ doesn’t need to know that,” he says, and then suddenly looks horrified at his own outburst.

Right.

Because he admitted he’s _not_ doing all right.

“Ser,” Brienne says, fighting the urge to reach out and touch him, “ _anyone_ with a pair of eyes who doesn’t want to deny the truth would see that you are _not_ fine. And – I’ve been in your place for one week. I wouldn’t expect you to be.”

He keeps on looking at her as if she’s just grown two heads.

“You – you wouldn’t?”

“Of course not,” she whispers. “He burned _two_ girls at once on the fourth day. And one of them was with child, you could see it. Anyone who expects you to be _fine_ guarding one such man knows nothing.”

Now he’s just incredulous rather than guarded or downright hostile. “Lady Rohanne, forgive me for being so blunt, but if _that_ ’s what you think, _why_ are you even here? You don’t _have_ to be.”

She shrugs. “I wanted to be useful. And I know I can be. My grandfather –”

“The latter King Aegon was _not_ the same kind of mad as this one,” Jaime interrupts her. “It’s _not_ the same thing.”

“I _know_ ,” she says, “but – I came here to do my duty and now that I saw how it is, I will stay because I have the skills to be of help and leaving just _you_ here is asking too much of you. You’re _one_ man, you cannot guard _him_ and his family.”

“Seven hells,” he says, “I wish I could say that honor will get you far in this line of work, but you seem too smart to fall for that. That said, I suppose I’m too selfish to tell you to just leave already. Have a good night, my lady.” He moves past her, opens the door to his room, and then he turns back to her again.

“And tell Rhaenys I would like to be back with them soon very much,” he says, his voice suddenly turning soft.

She’s itching to ask him if he misses his brother.

She doesn’t and merely nods at him before retreating back into her room.

Minutes later, she hears him tossing and turning in his bed _again_ , and then of course he’s having nightmares, and he was doing better when he _wasn’t_ guarding that insane dragon.

Gods, there _has_ to be something she can do. As much as she has enjoyed Elia’s quiet company and her tales about how someone such as her would like Dorne, she’s not here for _that_.

She’s here to make sure Aerys dies and to make sure Jaime doesn’t in the process, and like this, she can’t do it, and of course Jon’s not here so she can’t ask him for help –

 _Wait a moment_.

What did he tell her before leaving? That _he told Varys_ in case she needed external help from someone with resources.

 _Well then_ , she thinks, _time to ask for it_.

\--

She leaves her room and heads back to the castle. She asks around and finally locates Varys in the gardens – is the man _always_ in the gardens at night? Never mind that.

“Lord Varys,” she tells him.

“Lady Rohanne,” he greets back. “Or should I say –”

“I need to talk to you. Privately.”

“This is happening too often for my tastes, lately,” Varys mutters, “but of course. Do come with me.”

He brings her inside the castle, to some kind of hatch that of course leads to the damned tunnels under the place, and she follows him until they’re in some nook that’s entirely not tall enough for her.

Never mind it. At least it’s secluded.

“Lady Brienne,” he says, “how can I help you? Pardon me, but from what Lord Connington said you might have had need for my services a bit farther in time.”

“Well,” she says, “I also thought I _wouldn’t_ need you at all, but case is, I do. Now, I know that you’re about the only person the king will listen to.”

“Well –” He starts.

“My Lord. Don’t bother. I _know_. Where I come from it’s a truth universally acknowledged.”

“And what if I am?”

“Then I need you to convince him to let me and Jaime guard him alternately.”

“… _What_?”

“Lord Varys, I thought I was clear.”

“My lady, have you _seen_ how he is? No one can convince him to do anything –”

“Bar the person who gives him most of the hints about _who_ might be spying on him inside this castle? Lord Varys, I don’t think you understood the situation, so I will explain it to you again. Jaime and I, we _knew_ each other back where we come from.”

“I have a feeling _knew_ is an understatement.”

“Excuse me?”

“You look like your friend Lord Connington does when he speaks of the heir to the throne, my lady. Do go ahead.”

Well, at least she doesn’t have to fake anything.

“Well, I _knew_ him. I know what being with that mad excuse for a king is doing to him and I can’t stand hearing him _not_ sleep at night. And I didn’t come here to just walk in the gardens. Convince Aerys to have _either_ him or me with him. He needs a break and I would take his place indefinitely if I could, but I know I can’t, so – _please_ do try.”

Varys stares up at her and she holds his stare – she’s _not_ going to back down.

Then he smiles ever so slightly.

“I think I can understand why you two would, uhm, take to each other, so to speak. Very well. I will try to do what I can, but don’t expect anything.”

“Just do it. I trust your skills,” she tells him.

“If only everyone was this gallant about it,” he tells her. “I hope you do realize what you’re asking for.”

“I’ve done it for a week, I can handle the next month. And if I can help him out in any way, I will.”

Varys finally nods and takes a step back. “Do follow the hallway. You will run into another hatch and it will lead you to the White Sword Tower. Tomorrow I will see if I can do something for you, Lady Brienne. But don’t let feelings blind you too much.”

“I _know_ that,” she cuts him off. “Thank you, _my lord_.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply and follows the hallway until she’s out of the hatch and back in her room.

She barely sleeps, listening to how badly Jaime is doing the same on the other side of the door, and at some point she thinks her hands are wrapped up in fists so tightly that she ends up cutting her own skin.

Not that anyone will notice.

\--

The next day, she reports Rhaenys what Jaime told her and the princess looks overjoyed, and leaves her another message to deliver. She resolves to do it that night.

Then, at dinnertime, Aerys proclaims that maybe this _heir of Duncan’s_ should be put to the test and maybe she will take the next two days of guarding him while _Ser Jaime_ can think about what it means that his own king would rather trust a woman than _him_ to watch his back.

Brienne doesn’t dare searching for Varys in the crowd, and bites down on her tongue so that she doesn’t look _too_ happy about her new placement.

\--

“Lady Rohanne.”

When she comes back to her room, _Jaime_ is waiting in front of it.

“Ser Jaime,” she says. “Is there a problem?”

He stares up at her, and it’s obvious he doesn’t know whether he should be angry or relieved or surprised and he hasn’t quite settled on one yet.

“Varys might have told me I had _a friend_ in this castle and I might want to thank them for the reprieve. Do you have anything to tell me?” He sounds guarded. Like he can’t just buy that she _would_ want to help him out.

Gods, why did Varys have to tell him? She’s half-sure he wants to get back at her for having pretty much demanded his help, or maybe he has some kind of other plan brewing that she can’t know about.

Never mind _that_. Varys is not her problem.

“I – I’ve heard that he has leverage with the king.”

“He does.”

“So I figured that if I wanted to make sure you did get to spend some time with the princess I might have to ask him to make it happen.”

“But _why_?” He asks, frustration dropping from his voice. “ _Why_ would you – _volunteer_ for that? You’ve done it already. You _saw_ how he is. You don’t even know me. No one with a shred of sense would do it.”

 _You don’t know me_.

For a moment, she feels like a blade just struck through her heart.

But she _can’t_ tell him otherwise. She hates every damned moment of this, because if only she could –

No. The most she can hope for in _this_ timeline is being his friend, if she can even manage that, and she should make peace with it now.

“Because it would be unfair to leave it all on you, especially when you’ve done this for two years already.”

He freezes. “It would be _unfair_.”

“Just _one_ person having that job is unfair in itself. Given how he is, I think it’s even more unfair. And – leaving it all in the youngest member’s hands is – not what people with _a shred of sense_ should do, and that’s not a slight to you, ser. It’s the truth.”

He keeps on staring at her without saying a thing.

She’s tempted to just bolt and get inside her room, but – no. She needs to make this clear.

“You shouldn’t be doing that on your own,” she keeps on. “I came here, I chose to be here, I should help you out somehow.”

He shakes his head weakly. “It’s – I should be able to. I shouldn’t _need_ that. I can handle that. Just tell Varys –”

“Why, you’d risk Aerys _really_ getting angry over it?” She knows it’s a low blow, but he can see his eyes turn utterly terrified as he considers it. “And maybe you should be able to, according to Ser Darry and whoever,” she goes on, suddenly unable to stop even if she _really should keep her mouth shut_ , “but it’s still not fair. And I thought it wasn’t what being a knight was about.”

At _that_ , she can see his shoulders relax ever so slightly and now he’s looking at her still guarded, but – as if he’s starting to see what’s her point here.

“I didn’t think so either. When I joined, I mean,” he says, his voice dropping so low she can barely hear it. “But –”

“Ser,” she says, “I have – I have been around. All of us need some help at some point or the other. I have been here for not even a moon, you have for two years, and if _that_ is what you had to go through for two years, you are highly deserving of at least a break. Being a woman doesn’t mean I can’t handle this job.”

“I – I wasn’t thinking that,” he says. “That was clear from the moment you disarmed me.”

“I am amenable to give you a rematch, if we ever have the chance.”

The ghost of a smirk appears on his lips, and gods, he smiles the exact same way _now_ as he did _then_ , when he meant it.

“I doubt that, but I should be glad to.” He looks up at her again. “You said you’ve been around.”

“I have.”

“How long?”

Well, _damn it_. “I – I picked up a sword for the first time when I was nine. I left home when I was seven and ten.”

 _How long ago was it_.

“I am twenty now. It’s not been… _very long_ , I suppose, but long enough for me to see a lot.”

“Your grandfather did the same, after all,” he concedes, but – is he looking at her with _respect_ now?

“He did,” she concedes.

“And – you still – I mean, you’re still here discussing how _unfair_ it is that I’d be the only one guarding the king?”

 _Oh_.

“I am,” she says.

“ _How_? The more – the more time passes the more it seems like everything I swore when I was knighted is just horseshit.”

 _Well_ , she thinks, _this happened remarkably faster than I thought it would_ , but then again – then again, it’s not exactly a surprise. He _did_ tell her he asked his other Kingsguard fellow knights about their vows more than once, didn’t he?

How ironic, she thinks, that she’s about to dish him _his own advice._

“Ser,” she says, “I – I don’t know how this might be of help. But – since I left my family and I went on to – to be a knight, as much as I was allowed to, I realized that vows are hard. It does seem like they’re conflicting all the time. And in _your_ case, I can imagine how keeping them must be hard even if I’m sure I haven’t seen the first thing about it.”

She _knows_ she hasn’t. Good thing the queen isn’t here.

“You – you cannot balance them all. But some are more important than others, or _feel_ more important than others. And – following the ones that feel wrong never brings anything good. But – when you understand _what_ you want to stick up for, it’s a lot easier to do it.”

He nods, taking in the small speech – he doesn’t seem _entirely_ convinced, but it looks like she did give him something to talk about.

“And what vows are you following right now?”

Damn it. He always had a knack for asking the right questions, didn’t he?

“The ones that tell me I should do as much as I can to help the realm _and_ whoever I notice might need it.”

He holds her stare and she doesn’t dare move, even if she has to physically stop herself from doing something stupid like bolt into the room for real, because he hasn’t looked at her like _this_ since that time in the bathtubs in Harrenhaal and that’s _not_ what she wants to think of right now.

“I don’t _need_ help,” he finally says, but it sounds so weak he cringes the moment it leaves his mouth.

She takes a step forward and reaches out, touching his wrist ever so slightly. “Ser,” she says, “it took me a long time to learn that lesson. But there’s nothing bad in accepting it, when it’s offered. Whether you need it or not.”

“But –” He starts, then he looks down at the ground, and for a moment she wants to know what is tearing him apart so, but then she thinks she might know.

“Let me rephrase that,” she says. “There’s nothing _shameful_ in accepting it. Go run after the princess in the gardens tomorrow, I can handle whatever the king has in store for me.”

She thinks she’s smiling. She doesn’t know what it is that he sees in it that convinces him of her good intentions, but then he gives her a tiny nod and moves over so she can finally access her room.

“Fine,” he says, “but don’t regret it a week for now.”

 _If only I could afford that_.

“I don’t think I will. Have a good night, ser.”

“I wish I could, but thank you nonetheless.”

He turns his back on her and walks inside his own room.

She lets out a breath of utter relief the moment she shuts her door, and she hopes he hadn’t noticed how her brow seems to be covered in cold sweat.

Good gods, she hopes it’s not always like this when she talks to him from now on, or she’ll have a hard time not letting the truth slip forward, and she cannot. Not for now, at least, but she hopes she won’t have to tell Jaime at all, because who in the seven hells would believe such a story? It’s already a miracle Varys bought it.

She shakes her head, takes off her armor, changes into night attire and goes to sleep. She wakes up thrice, because the screaming from the other side of the wall did, but she forces herself to stay where she is and goes back to sleep every time.

She’ll need it, if she has to bear through Aerys Targaryen for the next two days.

\--

The next day, she goes through an entire morning of jabs at her expense that she only answers with _thank you, Your Grace_. The fact that she’s reprieved only when some terrified minor lord comes in to pledge his alliance and openly tries to not grimace at how long the king’s nails are getting isn’t much help, but then she glances outside the window. She can’t see faces from here, they’re too high, but she can see Rhaenys tugging on Jaime’s white cloak and she has to try to _not_ smile openly lest anyone notices.

If at least she gives him a reprieve, then she’ll bear whatever she has to.

\--

It’s not a surprise to see that when they run into each other in the hallway – they hadn’t the previous night – he’s waiting for her on her door and looks definitely more relaxed than he was the last time they spoke.

“The princess has a message for _you_ now,” he says, sounding amused.

“Really? And that’d be?”

“That you are her second-favorite in the guard because you actually keep your promises like a true knight.”

She smiles in spite of herself. “I imagined she appreciated your reprieve as much as you did?”

“Believe me, she did. I told her she could tell you in person tomorrow, but she insisted.”

“You – you sound very fond of her,” Brienne says, hoping against hope she doesn’t sound accusatory or like she’s demeaning him, but he merely shrugs.

“She’s a nice child.” He stops, then he shrugs again. “Sometimes she reminds me of my brother.”

She doesn’t know if she should be glad he told her on his own or if she should just break down in tears as soon as she’s alone, given what his older counterpart _did_ tell her, back in the day.

“Is he that young?” She asks, pretending she doesn’t know that –

“She’s the age he was when I left Casterly,” he says, a certain longing in his voice. “It’s not that they have _that_ much in common other than that, but still.”

“She likes you.” That’d be stating the obvious, wouldn’t it?

“I guess she hasn’t made a mystery out of it.”

“Well, if you’re _the only person in the Kingsguard_ that actually wants to be around her or her brother I can see why she would.”

He snorts. “As if. I don’t know how they _wouldn’t_ want to. At least she and her brother don’t _set people on fire_ now, do they?”

That they don’t, indeed. “You know,” she says, “if you _do_ like spending time with them you don’t have to, well, pretend you don’t.” _Not with me_ , she wants to add, but she doesn’t know if they’re well-acquainted enough for that right now.

He looks at her as if she just caught him in the middle of committing some kind of heinous act. “I don’t, huh?”

“Please, you’re better with her than _I_ ever could be. It’s a compliment.”

“Now that she likes you, you’ll find it remarkably easier.”

“Maybe, but – you are.” She shakes her head. “I had two brothers and a sister. They both died when I was young,” she says. “I don’t even remember my sister, though I _do_ remember my brother. I hated losing him. There’s – nothing bad in missing yours, especially if he’s alive for you to miss.”

 _That_ seems to drive the point home – he looks up at her and smiles sadly. “You do have a point. It’s just – you _know_ , right?”

“That he’s a dwarf? I think most of the realm knows.”

He shrugs again. “I just – I think I was about the one person he did like. I guess. He had his reasons,” he says sadly. _I can imagine why_ , Brienne thinks. “And – I guess it’s fate that I have to end in the same position here, too.”

She can understand it even too well.

“There’s nothing shameful in being good with children, either.”

He scoffs. “If you’re a woman, maybe.”

“I’m one and I’m not really _that_ good with them. And why? Really, it’s commendable.”

“Commendable?”

“There’s nothing wrong in caring for people. Or why were you knighted then? It’s what the entire thing is about, you know.”

Her heart skips a beat when he actually does smile back at her.

“Fuck me,” he says, “you’ve got a point. It’s just, I haven’t done much of that lately. What I swore when Ser Dayne knighted me, I mean.”

“How could you, given what I’ve seen around here?”

He looks at her as if he’s pondering whether he should trust her or not. She holds his stare back.

He takes a deep breath, moving slightly closer. “The Queen. You couldn’t know about her.”

_No, but I know, and I can’t say nothing now, can I?_

“I – I can imagine, though.”

“Can you?”

“I don’t suppose her husband treats her properly.”

“… No, that he doesn’t. It’s just – I’ve had to stand outside her door while he hurt her, and I couldn’t lift a hand because the man I swore to protect was the one harming her, and I know he only ever accepted me in the guard because he wanted to anger my father. I know _now_ , anyway. And just – that’s not really knightly, is it?”

She wants to cry. Especially because _he_ sounds about to.

“No,” she agrees, “but you _know_ it’s wrong. That makes you a whole lot better than people even denying it is, doesn’t it?”

“Small consolation,” he says, suddenly moving back. “But thanks, I suppose. Talking to you is strangely invigorating, Lady Rohanne.”

 _You don’t know you’re talking to yourself, though_ , she thinks sadly. “My pleasure, Ser Jaime,” she says, and watches him retreat to his room.

He sleeps _somewhat_ better that night.

Too bad that if her predictions are right, he _won’t_ in the next two.

\--

At least the princess is overjoyed to see her and informs her that she absolutely is a true knight since she did do what she promised.

Brienne is so _not_ adjusted to the prospect of people under the age of ten being _happy_ to see her, it’s _never_ not going to feel queer, but she does appreciate the rest from what goes on in the throne room even if she still wishes _she_ was up there and not Jaime.

Still, when the princess goes to take her afternoon nap, Brienne expects Elia to either dismiss her or ignore her.

Instead –

“Lady Rohanne, can I ask you a, somewhat private question, if I may?”

“Of course,” Brienne says, hoping that Elia hasn’t guessed _something_.

“It’s not even about you, but – you came along with that Ser Roland who left with the hand of the King, am I right?”

“Yes,” she says. “We met on the road and found out we had a common destination. And since he doesn’t have an arm he figured I could watch his back while we reached the city.”

“That sounds reasonable. But – he said he knew something about the Northern plans.”

“He overheard while he was in White Harbor, yes.”

“I was wondering – he wouldn’t maybe have heard of what those people’s plans for Rhaegar are?”

 _Of course she’d be worried_ , Brienne thinks, but she really can’t help there. She doesn’t even know what plans they might have had for Rhaegar _in the world she just left_ , this one is beyond her imagination. “I’m sorry,” she replies, “if he knew, he didn’t share them with me.”

“I understand,” Elia says, sadly. “It’s just – I’m worried,” she admits.

Brienne honestly admires her, because in her place she’d be devastated. “Well,” she says, “Ser Roland’s plan _did_ include any possible way to make sure he would live. If it goes through, I am sure he will.”

“ _How_? They never will let him. And – I am sad to say, they have the right of it.”

“My lady –”

“Rohanne, let’s not tell each other lies. My husband _did_ greatly disrespect me by running away with Lyanna Stark, true, and only the gods know if she was in agreement or not. The gods surely know that after he learned I couldn’t give him a third child he _changed_ for the worst. But as far as Ned Stark is concerned Rhaegar kidnapped his sister and Aerys _burned his brother and father alive_. I also would be waging war, if it had happened to mine own father and brothers. If they wanted him dead, I could hardly begrudge them for it. But if they wanted _them_ dead –” She says, looking at her son and daughter, who are currently sleeping on the other side of the room.

Brienne swallows bile. “I – I don’t know about Robert Baratheon, but from what I know, Ned Stark never would let that happen. That said, Ser Roland had a very good plan. Hopefully it will succeed. Still, if he comes back –”

“If he comes back, I will have to discuss matters with him. Still, he – he already was a trifle too obsessed with his children being the three _heads of the dragon_ back when we married. When he realized I couldn’t give birth to the third, he just – became a completely different person,” she sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t _know_ , but I don’t want to think he would just let them die.”

 _I wouldn’t want to think that either, but what do I even know?_ She knew, by the end, that he _had_ married Lyanna Stark but _hadn’t_ divorced Elia, so he certainly hadn’t wanted his two other children to die. And considering how reckless he was when it came to having the third, who even knows if he was thinking straight.

“My lady,” Brienne finally says, “I couldn’t say without knowing him, but if everything one hears about him is true, or even halfway true, he would make sure they would be safe and that _you_ would be, too, whatever his reasons for disrespecting you might have been.”

“Well, most of the things that are said about him were not false, at least they weren’t before – before he changed that drastically, I imagine, but thank you.”

“For what? I haven’t exactly given you any useful information.”

“Sometimes someone just listening to you will be enough. Sorry to burden you with it, but it’s not like the golden cloaks would listen. And – never mind.”

“Was that about, uh –”

“Ser Jaime? I guess my daughter was her usual talkative self,” Elia laughs weakly. “Let’s just say that it feels unfair to burden him with questions he wouldn’t know how to answer when he’s plenty burdened already and everyone with eyes can see it.”

_But no one could do anything about it, could they?_

“I cannot fault you for that,” Brienne finally tells her. “He – he looks like it.”

She just hopes she didn’t betray how much she hates admitting that.

Elia nods at her and goes back to her embroidering, and Brienne breathes in relief and guilt, because _of course_ Rhaegar didn’t care enough or worry enough to make sure his children would live – never mind his wife – but Elia doesn’t need to know that and hopefully _no one_ will need to know that.

She _really_ hopes Jon’s plan works out.

\--

That evening, Jaime is nowhere to be seen when she finally can go to sleep. She had saved him some food, same as last time, and since it’s always bread and sweets (she couldn’t bring anything else without being noticed) she supposes that it can hold until tomorrow morning.

She supposes until she hears steps in the hallway – heavy steps – and the door of the room next to hers closes with a distinct clash. She can hear Jaime taking off his armor while throwing the pieces to the ground instead of doing it carefully.

She looks at the bundle of food neatly wrapped in the table towel she stole from the table. She wonders if he’ll hear her through the wall if she speaks – given that she hears _him_ , he might.

“Ser?” She asks. Suddenly, the noise from the next room stops. “Ser, are – are you all right?”

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then –

“I’ll be fine, my lady,” he replies tiredly.

“Could – could I see you for a moment?” She asks.

She seems to not get any answer, but then –

“Fine,” he says.

She immediately stands up and grabs the bundle, then walks out of her room just as he walks out of his.

Gods, he looks _terrible_. His eyes are red-rimmed and his hair has never looked more disheveled, and he looks like he could sleep for a month at least.

She doesn’t ask him anything, though, even if she’s itching to know what exactly happened to put that look on his face.

“I – I imagined you might have had to skip on dinner again, since the King wasn’t there,” she stammers for a moment before regaining her bearings. “I saved you some.”

He takes the bundle with less hesitations than he had the first time, then glances inside. For a moment, it’s obvious he’s tempted to give it back, but –

“You didn’t have to,” he says.

“I don’t only do things I _have to_ , ser.”

“Fair,” he concedes. “Then – thank you. I did not have dinner, after all.”

“The princess is very relieved to know you are doing all right and will be with them again shortly.”

“You can tell her I am, too,” he cuts short. “I – I’ll eat this and try to sleep. Thank you again,” he says, and then goes back inside the room.

Well, she’s not going to push it. At least he’s not going to bed with an empty stomach.

He doesn’t sleep that night. She hears him wake up and toss and turn all night, he has at least three different nightmares and she’s almost sure that in one of them he was pleading with Aerys to not burn his brother and sister the way he did Ned Stark’s, and she feels sick just at the mere idea of it.

She doesn’t see him throughout the next day at all, but she hears that something particularly nasty went down yesterday in the dungeons, and that the King isn’t _faring too well_ today, which means he’ll be in his chambers – along with Jaime, of course – and that one could cut the tension in the air like a knife during meal times, when the emptiness at the head of the table can be _wholly_ felt.

 _Jon,_ she thinks, _where in the seven hells are you and your army and how long will it take yet?_

A long time, still. How long has it been, a week? Maybe? It’s another three, at least.

The only upside is that at least _she_ is going to deal with Aerys tomorrow. Small mercies, and if she thinks it an _upside_ , it speaks entirely of how badly this situation is spiraling out of control.

\--

That evening, she still brings extra food from the table. The room next to hers is empty. She stays awake, feeling the familiar shape of Oathkeeper under her mattress and wishing she could just take it out, but she can’t risk that, not when she doesn’t know how many eyes _might_ be watching.

She expects footsteps, and instead she hears them at the beginning but then they halt and then there’s the sound of someone wearing armor clashing to the ground making a _lot_ of noise.

She’s out of the room in a moment, and – Jaime’s in the hallway, sort of kneeling on the ground, a hand gripping the wall, while his cheeks have taken a worrying shade of scarlet, and he looks about to pass out.

Well, fuck protocol.

“Ser,” she says, kneeling in front of him and lending him an arm. His hand immediately seizes her wrist, but he says nothing. “ _Ser_ ,” she goes on. “Can you stand?”

He shakes his head, closing his eyes and breathing even faster, and now his hand grasping her arm is shaking wildly, and –

She’ll deal with the consequences later, she thinks as she hoists him upwards and drags him inside her own room, as the door is open and her bed is large enough. He sits on it when she lets him go and she quickly removes the white plates of his armor, and a moment later she can see him breathing in deeply and coughing slightly – obviously _that_ wasn’t helping.

She puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Ser Jaime,” she tries again. “How – how are you feeling?”

He shakes his head and finally looks down at her, as he finally notices her presence for real, and his free hand suddenly grips at the fabric of his shirt. “Poorly,” he admits, “but – I’ll be all right. I – I’m sorry.”

“Why should you be?” She asks.

He sends her a _look_ that makes her think that at least he won’t faint for now. “I’m in the _Kingsguard_. I shouldn’t – it’s not –”

“Have you drank or eaten today?”

“… No,” he says, weakly.

She feels _very_ thankful she has kept a cup of water in the room at all times just in case – she gets it and hands it to him, telling him to drink it slowly, and then gets her stolen food.

“I got that today, too,” she says. “It’s just bread and some honeycakes, but – just eat them. It should help out.”

“I don’t need –”

“You almost fainted just outside that door, ser. _Please_.”

For a moment, he looks about to refuse, but then she stands up and turns her back on him. She hears him eating a moment later and she busies herself getting some water for herself and then refilling the cup for him. He’s done already when she hands it back to him. Gods, he must have been starving.

“Here,” she tells him. “It cannot hurt.”

He takes it.

“I – thank you,” he says, not quite looking at her. “I – I still shouldn’t – but thank you nonetheless.” He sounds pained.

“Ser, it’s – it’s _normal_. Anyone would faint if they stood in an armor for an entire day without food or drink.”

“Ser Dayne could,” Jaime replies, sounding _even more_ pained.

 _Ser Dayne was older than you and a seasoned knight and someone who should have known better than leaving you on your own here, and should have known better than fighting Ned Stark over a dead man_ , but she can’t say that.

“I _did_ almost faint because I forgot to eat for two days once, and no one can be Ser Dayne. He’s _himself_ , and you’re _yourself_ , and you should get some rest.”

He doesn’t say no at that. Then he tries to stand up.

 _Then_ his legs falter and he falls back on her bed, almost hitting his head against the wall.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, and tries again, and doesn’t crumple to the ground just because she grabs his arm and helps him sitting back on the bed. His eyes are closed, scrunched up so tight it must be painful, and she can only think, _is he trying to not cry in front of me_?

“You’re exhausted,” she tells him, “don’t try that.”

“It’s ridiculous, _fuck_ –”

“It’s _not_. Everyone has a limit. This is yours, I guess. Just – you can sleep here.”

“ _What_? It’s your bed, my lady. I cannot –”

“I can sleep on the ground, I wouldn’t take yours and the other rooms are locked. But I’ve done worse. Ser, honestly, do get some sleep.”

He stares at her. “No,” he says. “I couldn’t – just let me get enough sleep and then wake me up and I’ll move back to my room.”

It’s enough of a compromise, she decides. “Very well. Do go ahead.”

He thanks her with such a garbled voice she can barely make out the words, and then he moves under the covers and passes out almost immediately. She doesn’t know if she could bear watching him sleep without feeling like someone was indeed stabbing her heart more than once at the same time and so she busies herself placing his armor’s pieces in a neat pile near the door and polishing hers, and it all goes fine until he starts turning on his side again.

 _Damn it_ , she thinks, _what do I do now_ , because she has a clue he wouldn’t take being woken up very well, not at all, but then he turns from his back on his side, and fuck but his face is completely _wet_ , isn’t it, and –

 _Why are you leaving_ , he sobs, or she thinks he does but that’s definitely how it sounded, _you said we’d be together, why did you leave me here_ , and _of course_ it’s about his sister, _isn’t it_ , and if Brienne hadn’t even thought about Cersei Lannister in months because she was dead and gone and good riddance to her – she’s usually not like _this_ but from what both Jaime and Tyrion told her

( _before they both died_ )

there was little about her that wasn’t despicable, never mind that if she thinks about how horrible she was to the both of them she can’t help wondering how can anyone be that cruel to their own blood, never mind someone she presumably _loved_.

But she’s thinking about her _now_ , and about how in _her_ time Jaime had said in a horribly _sad_ tone that he didn’t even know if she wanted him to join the Kingsguard because she knew he coveted it or because it was convenient for _her_ anymore, but he hated to think the latter was more probable.

 _Of course,_ she thinks, maybe more bitterly than she’d have once upon a time, _convince him to be next to you always even if he’d give up his life for you while you’re still thinking you’ll marry someone else, what’s fair about that_ , and then he makes another noise that makes _her_ want to cry.

 _Fuck protocol_ , she thinks not for the first or last time as she kneels next to the bed and puts a hand on his shoulder, shaking it softly.

“Ser Jaime?” She asks, feebly.

He goes still, then opens his eyes, slowly, and they’re still more red than white and it’s obvious he hasn’t had any rest whatsoever. He blinks once, twice, and then he finally seems to recognize her.

“Oh,” he says, “I guess I should go.” She doesn’t know if she’s ever heard his voice tremble so much in her entire life.

“You don’t have to,” she replies at once. “You should have gotten some rest, not _this_.”

“I don’t know if it’ll get any better,” he says, bitterly.

“Give it a try,” she insists, and _gods_ but she’s itching to –

She’s almost horrified at herself as she sees her hand move without authorization and her fingers brush his scalp tentatively.

Obviously.

Because it _would_ work, back where she comes from, it _always_ would –

She expects him to punch her in the face.

Instead he closes his eyes again.

 _What_ –

She holds her breath as she does it again, maybe not so tentatively now, and he breathes out a lot less hurriedly than he had before.

He must be exhausted, _really_ , but – until he says no, if it’s helping, which shouldn’t she go on? She does, not daring moving her fingers upwards or to run them through his hair properly, until his breathing evens out. She considers going on, but she has a feeling she’s pushing her luck here, so she stops and leans back, figuring she’ll let him sleep –

And then his left hand reaches out and grasps her wrist.

He’s _not_ sleeping, but he’s also not looking at her.

She doesn’t move, waiting for another sign, and then –

Then he scoots back against the wall. Enough for her to actually climb inside the bed, should she want to.

A part of her that she would have listened to back when she left home to fight for Renly Baratheon says _don’t, he doesn’t know, you’d be taking advantage, it’s not honorable_.

That part of her, though, hasn’t been one she’s listened much to when she had to use Oathkeeper to kill Lady Stoneheart, and so she climbs cautiously into the bed, putting the covers above the two of them. It’s barely large enough for the two of them and they have to press against each other, and as soon as she lies down, he lets her wrist go.

She could say something.

Or she could let him pretend whatever it is that he’s telling himself to justify this – to him – most probable display of weakness, and so she puts an arm around his waist and moves her hand back to his hair, slowly carding through it, and she feels him go lax in her grip with a shudder before his breathing evens out again.

It’s – it’s _strange_ , because it’s the same situation as _before_ but at the same time it’s wholly different, and she can’t do a lot of the things she wishes she could or that she used to when they shared a bed back _when_ she comes from.

But at the same time, just the fact that he’s _here_ and he wanted her to be in the damned bed is making her head spin, and she just hopes this brings him a modicum of comfort because it’s about the most she can hope for. She keeps on running her hands through his long

(maybe _too long_ )

hair until she falls asleep out of exhaustion, and she keeps her hold on his waist and before she passes out, she can’t help notice that he’s barely moved at all.

\--

The morning after, she wakes up before him, and good thing that because _she_ is guarding Aerys today and tomorrow, so she can’t linger long. She looks back down at him, and he’s still sleeping, still moving just slightly, still breathing regularly. It seems like he _did_ get some sleep, after all.

She runs her finger through his hair one last time before leaning back and leaving the bed, bringing up the covers. He rolls over, burying his head in the pillow, and he looks so impossibly young, she feels another pang to her heart as she drinks the last of her water, washes her face and dons her armor.

It’s going to be a long day, she fears.

At least for _her_.

\--

It’s _less_ of a long day than she had imagined it being – the fact that Aerys is feeling _very_ poorly means that he spends it in bed and whenever she has to be inside the room or outside she merely gets on with it by answering _yes, Your Grace_ to every question he asks her and agreeing at everything, even if it’s something demeaning her – who cares.

If anything, since he’s _feeling poorly_ he doesn’t even take notice of her half of the time.

She hears him coughing _a lot_.

She wonders what in the seven hells went down yesterday and then asks herself, _do I want to know_?

\--

Brienne comes back to her room feeling like she could bathe for two months just to wash off the _wrong_ feeling every minute spent in Aerys’s presence leaves on her skin, and of course it’s empty. She takes off her armor, changes into clean clothes deciding that she _will_ take a bath tomorrow and is about to risk reaching for Oathkeeper under the mattress, but then someone knocks on her door.

It’s Jaime, only wearing the white cloak and not the armor, and looking visibly more rested than usual but also _utterly embarrassed_.

“My apologies for what happened,” he finally says, looking up at her as if he wishes he could disappear under the ground.

“There’s – no need for that?”

“No, there is. I behaved very foolishly, and _very_ shamefully, for – for being in the Kingsguard and for –”

“Ser, if you were about to mention your family, I suggest you stop,” she says, and then he _does_ and still looks up at her as if he can’t make sense of her _at all_.

“It’s true,” he protests, but it’s _painful_ how it’s obvious it’s his father talking right now and not _him_. She knows because not even when they had just met and she couldn’t stand the sight of his face he ever said something so colossally stupid, but she _does_ remember what Tyrion had told her one night when they had both shared a bottle of Dornish red while waiting for the end in Winterfell, after Jon Snow died and just before Jaime fell ill, and not long after then Tyrion was found dead in his own bed.

( _Brienne is sure he found a way to take his own life painlessly and quickly._

 

 _Probably, the smartest way to behave in their current situation, and given that he certainly was the smartest person in between the whole lot of them, it says all._ )

He did tell her that their father _always_ had some variation of that speech ready for the both of them to hear whenever he thought they weren’t living up to the family name.

He told her that among other things, and she wishes she didn’t know them _now_ because it’s just making this entire situation even more wretched.

“You needed some rest,” she says instead. “You got it. You’ve been here for what, two years, without anyone you know or without contacting your family. I know what vows you swore. There’s nothing shameful or foolish in what happened, and if I may be blunt, it doesn’t seem to me like not sleeping at all was helping you much more, or wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t,” he admits. He’s not looking at her anymore. “But – my father wouldn’t be exactly be happy to hear it, and I _should_ apologize –”

“Ser, I _didn’t mind_. And – are _you_ your father?”

“Well, _no_ , but –”

“If _you_ were, I’d have accepted his apologies, since I suppose he would have believed that little speech you just gave me. But you _aren’t_ , and I don’t think anyone who swears a vow to be brave and just and to defend the young and innocent would think that it’s shameful or foolish to need some help themselves once in a while. You don’t have to apologize to me for something that was freely given and offered and you don’t have to apologize for being – _yourself_ , I suppose. Surely you’re a better knight than any I’ve met inside this castle.”

“I doubt –”

She _has_ to laugh, even if it’s wildly impolite at this point. “You’re the only one I met up until now who actually _thinks_ about what he’s doing, ser. Does Ser Darry sleep as badly as you do? Does Ser Whent?”

“Not that I know of,” Jaime scoffs. “But –”

“Then it seems that you _do_ have a conscience. Which I would think is necessary, in our line of work. And it seems like they don’t like to listen to it.”

“At least their sleeping habits are better for it.”

“That doesn’t make them good knights or good _people_ , though. Or at least that wouldn’t be what I would take as the ultimate sign of it.”

“And how do _you_ sleep at night, Lady Rohanne?”

 _Gods_ , of course he had to ask that.

“I used to sleep horribly,” she says. Because she _had_ , while she was looking for Sansa, hadn’t she? “Then – I had to do something I loathed. You wouldn’t know of it, it was a minor squabble happened a year ago or so.”

 _While Aerys was already beyond mad, so who would notice_?

“I’m listening.”

“I – I cannot go into details because some of the people involved are still alive, and they don’t wish for this story to be known, but – I had sworn myself to someone. It was someone who had actually taken me seriously, for once. Not many people do, even if learning who my grandfather used to be does change some minds.” _Since when have I become this good of a liar?_ “This person – suffered a personal loss. A deep personal loss that came after a betrayal. That would have turned anyone mad. At some point, they started leading some bandits and killing people around the area in order to get revenge, and they were sure a, uh, close friend of mine was involved with that _personal loss_. So, I was given a choice. Killing that close friend or die.”

“And what did you do?”

“I couldn’t kill an innocent person I was _friends_ with. And I couldn’t let them kill innocent people out of revenge. I – I had to kill the person I swore myself to. It was horrible and I regret that I had to every single moment, but I don’t regret having picked decency over following someone who had become a danger to everyone around them and to themselves. I made peace with the fact that you had to choose what vows to follow and I made my choice. And if you’re asking yourself what I’m doing _here_ , from what I heard the realm needed capable people and I’m doing it _for the realm_. Not for your king.”

She wishes she could tell him, _and I wouldn’t ever have made sense of any of it if it wasn’t for you_ , and it’s really, _really_ strange to see him hanging on to her every word when it would have never left her mouth hadn’t they met each other a long time ago.

“That – that’s fair,” he concedes.

“Anyhow,” she goes on, “since _then_ , I sleep better. I made peace with it. But I understand why _anyone_ wouldn’t, and someone who sees the same thing _I_ saw and that I suppose _you_ see daily and goes through his life blissfully unaware of what they’re allowing their liege lord to do, was not cut for this job. Seems to me like _you_ are aware, at least. And again, I am not accepting any apologies for what happened last night. I wouldn’t have gotten to the point where _I sleep better_ if – if someone else hadn’t helped me see it.”

“That _friend_ you mentioned?”

“Them and a few other people,” she says, noticing that he’s speaking like it’s some kind of complicated notion he cannot quite pinpoint, but –

He’s ten and seven. She _knows_ that until he left Casterly to go squiring he spent most of his time with either his sister or his brother and that his father wasn’t too fond of his children mingling with commoners or the likes. He’s never talked to her of _making friends_ while he was squiring and she doesn’t think Arthur Dayne would qualify as such, nor anyone else in the Kingsguard, and as much as some relatives could have come close to it, it’d still be _relatives_.

Maybe he really just can’t conceive it.

“You know,” she says, not liking how her voice is suddenly softening _too much_ , because he shouldn’t realize the depth of her feelings, “everyone needs friends once in a while. There’s nothing wrong with trusting other people.”

She _knows_ he’s about to say, _my father wouldn’t agree._

But then –

“So that’s what we are now?”

“Friends?” She asks, willing her heart to just _stop_ beating so wildly. “We could be if you’d like.”

“Why, would _you_?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ I? There’s nothing I’ve seen until now that suggests me it would be a poor life choice.”

“I don’t know about that, but I suppose it’s your funeral,” he says, smiling ever so slightly as he does.

“I’ll take my chances. And –” She considers risking it or not, then decides to just go for it. “And if we’re _friends_ , there’s no need for the _lady_. I never felt much like one anyway.”

“So what,” he says, “it’s Rohanne now?”

“If you want it to be.”

“Then it’s Jaime, if you want it to be.”

Then he wishes her goodnight and moves back to his room.

As she closes the door, she’s breathing so heavily one would think she just ran here all the way from Dragonstone, but it seems like it went down as well as it could be, and maybe if it means she can make things _less bad_ for him for whatever time they have left, it can’t be a bad thing.

\--

That night, he still sleeps badly, though not as much as before. The next one, it’s the same. And then they have to switch again, and she’s extremely sad to hear that the king _is_ feeling better and will come back to his duties tomorrow, when Jaime has to take her place.

Meanwhile, no letters arrive from either the Tower of Joy nor anywhere else.

Maybe no news is better than bad news, she decides.

\--

That is, until the next day Varys walks up next to her as she leaves Elia’s room and the gold cloaks take her place.

“My lady,” he asks, “I must ask you to come with me for a short while.”

“What – what’s going on?” She asks.

“Well, it seems like our common acquaintance _Lord Connington_ has sent you a message, but couldn’t risk letting it reach the castle and might have chosen an unorthodox way to do so, hoping that my eyes would see far enough to notice.”

“I suppose they did.”

“You suppose right. You need to leave now and be at the place where you went for food the first day you were here. _Someone_ will bring that message to you.”

“Very well. Thank you,” she tells him. “And thank you for switching us as well.”

“Don’t thank me for things you might regret, my lady.”

She takes off her armor – it wouldn’t do to go around the city in that white _noticeable_ get-up – and heads for the tavern.

\--

She walks into the tavern and sits down at the first empty table she sees.

A moment later, someone else sits in front of her.

She takes a good look at him – a man, tall enough but certainly shorter than she is, chestnut hair and eyes, commoner clothes, quite handsome. Not as Jaime, but he holds his own.

“Lady _Rohanne_ , I suppose?” He asks.

“Do we know each other?” She asks back cautiously.

“No,” he says, “but we have a common friend, I think.”

He rummages in his pocket and hands her a sealed raven. “This came to my, uh, place of employment earlier this morning along with another message. It said the sealed one was for a _lady Rohanne_ who’s currently in the King’s employment, is taller than most men and has blonde hair and blue eyes, and that I should try to give it to her, was it possible for me.”

 _Place of employment_. He’s quite not looking at her.

She clears her throat. “Uh, I am aware of our common friend’s preferences,” she says. “Did you meet recently?”

“A month ago or so.”

Right. While he was still in the castle.

“I can imagine then. Well, thank you very much for actually searching me out.”

“Don’t mention it. He was – generous enough on his last visit that I could certainly spare the time to pay him a favor. If I get another such message should I make sure Lord Varys is informed of it?”

“That would be the ideal, yes. Thank you, uh –”

“Name’s Eddard, Lady Rohanne, but I doubt you’ll have much other need for my services. Have a good evening.”

He stands up and leaves as Brienne looks down at the raven and breaks the seal.

_We are traveling on time and we should be there in two weeks at most. Rhaegar sent us a message from the Tower of Joy and apparently he will be there as well. It didn’t mention anything or anyone else. Everything is going as well as it could. Take care and burn this._

It’s not signed, but it’s obvious it’s Jon’s – gods, it’s not _exciting_ news but at least they aren’t all dead.

She considers keeping it, but no, he’s right. She throws it in the fire burning in the corner after ordering some ale just so that she doesn’t stand out _too much_ and only leaves when her drink is finished and the piece of paper is turned to ashes.

\--

The hallway is silent when she gets back to the Red Keep. She figures that it won’t hurt to ask for that bath now and for her water pitchers to be refilled – she calls for a maid and the latter is accomplished shortly, while the bath is brought down to her room not long later. By the time she’s done, she feels not _cleansed_ but at least better off than before, and she doesn’t like how there’s no noise coming from the next room, but she can hardly go knock.

She puts on clean bed clothes and turns in, hoping that Jaime’s not here because he’s taking time having dinner or _not being with Aerys_ and not because his shift might have gotten longer.

She sleeps, not too deeply but she does, except that then she’s brusquely woken up by a knock on her door that’s actually way more tentative than it _feels_ – she only jerks awake because it was utterly silent before.

“It’s not locked,” she says, even if her hand immediately reaches for the sword currently placed up against the wall. “Come in.”

For a moment, nothing happens, and then the handle is tentatively moved down, and the door opens to show her Jaime’s utterly devastated face.

She’s out of bed in a moment, all traces of sleep completely gone, and walks up to him stopping just short of the two of them actually touching, not that it would amount to much given that he’s wearing armor and he’s doing nothing to divest himself from it.

Actually, he’s doing _nothing_ at all – he’s looking somewhere in the direction of his right hand but his eyes are completely unfocused, and she should probably get worried but he looks exactly the way he did when she walked into the throne room the first time, _doesn’t he_?

What did he tell her once, when they were still both prisoners of the Bloody Mummers?

 _To go away inside_?

She shakes her head and starts taking his armor off – he lets her, not even saying a thing, and she says nothing for the entire time it takes her to do it, hoping that maybe he’ll come back to himself in due time.

Though hopefully _soon_ , since she hardly knows what she should do, not when he’s not looking at her even if he _did_ come to her first.

She puts away the armor in one of the room’s corners, thinking _and he had no one to do that for him the first time round_ , and when she turns back to check on him he’s still standing in the middle of the room, staring at her bed but not _looking_ at it, and no, she decides, she _doesn’t_ want to know what went down today. Not at all.

“Jaime?” She asks, trying to at least _sound_ calm. She gets no answer, so she tries again, but this time she closes her fingers around his wrist, not too strongly but enough that he _has_ to feel it, and at that he does look at her, shaking his head ever so slightly.

“Rohanne?” He asks back, shaking his head slightly.

“Yes,” she says, not moving her hand. “What do you need?” She goes on, trying to keep her voice as low as possible.

He keeps on staring at her.

Then –

“Are you _really_ here?” He breathes, now looking like he doesn’t know if he’s making her up or not, and gods, she doesn’t have a clue of what she should do here or of what wouldn’t make things _worse_ , but then again, if what was fine with him during the (too little) time they had together is fine _now_ , maybe –

Well, it’s not like she has many better options.

She grabs both his hands and squeezes, hard but not _painful_.

“Yes,” she says again. “Yes, I am, and _you_ are, too.”

At that, he seems to at least focus some, though not as much as she’d like. Then she notices that his left hand _feels_ different, and she turns it around.

 _Well_ , there’s a superficial burn on his palm. _What_ –

“What happened,” she says, not even asking.

He looks down at their joined hands in a frankly disturbing way. “He – we went to the dungeons.” He’s talking in such a detached way it makes her stomach turn over on itself. “He said one of his pyromancers found some – some _new_ kind of wildfire. He said they needed to know something.”

“And?”

“He said I should try to touch the flame. While I was wearing armor and gloves. Until it became _too much_. I did.”

… Of course he has a _superficial burn_ there, gods, and she should probably go get some water and wrap a wet bandage over it or _something_ , but he’s grasping at her hands so tightly, she couldn’t.

“He had no right,” she says, fully realizing how hollow it sounds.

“It didn’t hurt,” he goes on, and _how_ wouldn’t it – unless he was purposefully trying not to think about it, and wasn’t that again what he advised her to do when it looked like the Bloody Mummers _would_ have tried to rape her?

“It – didn’t?”

“It does now,” he says, shrugging a bit, and she can see his eyes tearing up and –

Seven hells, there’s a limit to everything, she decides, and she’s pretty sure he was _not_ expecting her to leave his left hand be and put an arm around his shoulders, but then that same hand reaches up and grasps at her shirt just below her neck, and wait _is he hugging her back_?

He is, she realizes a moment later, and so she lets his other hand go to do it properly, and she hopes her heartbeat doesn’t get _too_ fast as his chin moves over her shoulder and she buries a hand in his hair again and keeps him close and hopes that this is grounding him somewhat.

Then he shudders against her as if he’s just woken up from some kind of dream and she can feel him getting tense, as if he doesn’t really want to move but doesn’t want to do something potentially humiliating either, and if only she could tell him that there’s _nothing_ he could do in front of her that she’d take as such.

“It’s fine,” she says. “Whatever – whatever’s happening, it’s fine.” She’s sure she didn’t sound _too_ convincing but it’s evidently enough because he about stops holding himself up and she ends up having to move back to the bed and make sure he lies down on it along with her, and she thinks, _if only my septa could see me now I’d dare her to tell to my face that being larger than most men was a weakness_. Right now she’s glad she is, if anything because if she was smaller she wouldn’t have the strength to do all of this, never mind holding him up.

“Should I look at that hand?” She asks softly when he’s not shaking anymore but not moving, either.

“Would you?” He asks, with such a tiny voice she can barely recognize him.

“Of course.” She moves back, takes it between hers again to take a better look at it in the candlelight – right. It’s superficial. _At least that_ , she thinks, but her feelings for Aerys Targaryen aren’t getting milder because of it, all the contrary. She rips a piece of the old shirt she had on when she traveled from her when, wets it in the coldest pitcher of water she has and then goes back to the bed, where she wraps it around Jaime’s hand as tightly as she can without making it hurtful. “It’ll heal on its own, I think, but this should make it burn less.”

“Thank you,” he croaks, not quite looking at her again.

“I – I imagine you couldn’t feign sickness tomorrow, could you?”

He shakes his head. “Not for this. And no, having _you_ take my place wouldn’t – it’s already a miracle he’s accepting this situation. No.” At least he sounds like he’s back to himself, mostly. “I will live. But – how did I get here?”

 _He doesn’t remember_?

She decides to not point it out. “You knocked,” she replies.

“Hells. Well, sorry if I woke you up, but – thank you. I should –”

“Do you want to sleep here?” She cuts him off. At this point she’s aware that he won’t ask.

He stops, looks at her, and then –

“Would it be too much to ask?” He admits, still not quite looking at her.

“Lie down,” she says instead, turning to blow on the candles so the room falls into darkness, and she moves with her back against the wall so that she won’t crowd him and so that he can leave tomorrow morning without having to climb all over her.

He does, and they have to grasp at each other again lest they fall over on the ground, but as his bandaged hand cautiously touches her hip and he seems to fall asleep the moment she runs her hand through his hair, she decides that whatever happens she’s glad she could be _here_ because the only thing she can think of is that the first time around he was most probably feeling the same and he had no one to even coach him through it.

She falls asleep wondering how someone can be failed by so many people throughout his life, and she wakes up to find the other side of the bed empty because of course he’d have to leave sooner if he has to guard the king, and his armor’s gone, but the bed is still warm and she just hopes he slept decently.

\--

That evening, she can hear rustling come from Jaime’s room when she comes back from her rounds. She considers leaving it be, but –

She takes off her armor and then proceeds to knock on his door.

“Rohanne,” he greets her as he opens it, “is there a problem?”

“I just wanted to ask how you were doing,” she tells him. “I mean, after yesterday, I wanted to make sure.”

“Oh,” he says, shrugging and raising up his left hand, “it’s holding up. You were right though, keeping it wet helped. A few days and I should be good, I think.”

“That’s great. And for the rest?”

“You aren’t going to let me forget it, are you?” He asks, but why does he sound _fond_?

“I’m sorry but I couldn’t,” she admits. “Really. How are you?”

“I could do worse. And nothing like _that_ happened today, but thanks for inquiring.” He doesn’t sound sarcastic, though. He sounds – pleased that she asked.

“Then I’m glad to hear it. Well, I’ll go then.”

“Wait,” he tells her, “I – do you think you could come in a moment?”

“Of course,” she says, and walks inside the room.

It’s not much better decorated than hers, or better, Ser Barristan’s, but it’s more lived in, and there are a few papers and books on a small desk pushed to the corner. Pieces of his armor are scattered all over the bed, a cloth thrown nearby.

“It’s just – hells, this is _embarrassing_ , but – yesterday, we were in the dungeons. That armor got dirty. And I should polish it, but if I use the left hand to hold it still it hurts, so –”

“I can do it,” she says, not stopping herself from smiling. “It’s not such a big deal.”

“I could do it on my own, but –”

“I _know_ you can, but it’s fine if you don’t want to hurt your hand any further. It’s fine, I can do it.”

“Thanks,” he tells her, and then moves over to the desk as she sits on the bed, grabs the cloth and starts scrubbing the plate. It’s an automatic motion by now, so she doesn’t pay too much attention to it – instead she glances up at him as he grabs a leather book and opens it, taking a piece of paper out of it and reading it, his eyes slightly scrunching as he does, but he’s smiling as he does.

“Is that some enticing novel?” She asks.

He laughs at that, a little. “Not really. My brother sends me letters sometimes. Well, actually, he _sent_ me letters when I was squiring for Lord Crakehall, now he doesn’t anymore but I highly doubt I would receive them if he _did_ write them. I kept them,” he says, and now he looks a bit embarrassed of it.

“No shame in it,” she tells him as she keeps on scrubbing. “It’s – endearing, actually.”

“Knights of the Kingsguard shouldn’t be _endearing_ ,” he protests.

“Who says? It’s nice that you’d do that. I’m sure your brother would appreciate.”

She looks down at the white plate. It’s pristine, now. She puts it on the side.

“Oh, _he_ would,” Jaime agrees. “Too bad I don’t think he knows. I should find a way to tell him. Never mind that.”

She stands up, moving closer. “How old did you say he was?”

“Ten this year.”

“But he sent you letters from what, five years ago? That’s impressive. At five, I couldn’t write _anyone_ letters.”

Jaime snorts. “He definitely is the gifted one in the family when it comes to _that_ I think. Do you want to read one?”

 _Wait, what_?

“If you feel like it would be appropriate, why not,” she replies, not wanting to make him feel like he _has_ to share.

He shrugs. “I might have showed them to other people, back when I was still squiring, but it was apparently childish and not too interesting.”

And then he grabs that one letter and another one and just about shoves them at her – gods, he does look somewhat excited about it? She takes them and checks the dates – one it’s from 278, so Jaime must have left for a year. It’s quite short and it has a few spelling mistakes and it amounts to Tyrion telling Jaime he misses him very much and he hopes he’s having adventures like he always used to tell him, but honestly, when _she_ was five she could read fine but wouldn’t have managed to write all of that in _two_ sentences. The handwriting is also, well, belonging to a _child_ , but she can read it fine, and hers never was great until she was seven or so.

“That’s impressive,” she finally says, before going on to the second one. “I mean, I don’t know anyone that young who’d actually _write people letters_. I couldn’t have, back in the day.”

“Neither could I,” Jaime agrees, but he sounds ridiculously proud of it rather than resentful. Brienne moves on to the one below which is from 280, and – never mind that the handwriting is clearer and more legible and there isn’t one spelling mistake that she can spot, it covers the entire page and there’s one sentence which is about _four_ lines long. She whistles – it’s not as if she didn’t know Tyrion Lannister always was extremely well-read and she _did_ talk to him enough times to know it, so seeing that he was from such a young age isn’t a surprise, but still, she hadn’t expected that age to be _quite_ so young. The content is what you’d expect – updating Jaime on what’s happening in Casterly Rock, then informing him of what interesting things he read recently and so on, but the _form_ is just exquisite.

She also notices that neither his father nor his sister are mentioned, but she chooses to pretend she’s not aware of it.

“That’s – that’s amazing,” she says, not lying. “I mean, I could write like this at maybe twelve. Though admittedly I was more interested in swords than books,” she adds – it’s not true, she also was very interested in songs and stories, but if she’s supposed to be a _commoner_ she can’t push it too much.

“I don’t think I can write like that _now_ ,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry about it or anything of the kind. “And I _know_. I just – he _could_ read when I left. I was so excited to see that he was getting that good at it, but – I ended up keeping it for myself, I guess. At least I told him the few times I came back.”

She hands him back the letters and he puts them back in the book carefully.

“You should be,” she tells him. “He seems extremely bright. Maybe he could be a scholar at some point.”

“I don’t know if our father would be happy for it, but last I know, he was aiming for High Septon. Apparently, the crown gives you a foot in height.”

Brienne _has_ to laugh a bit at that. “When you see him again, you can tell him that being too tall doesn’t help you either, but it hasn’t stopped me from achieving what I wanted.”

“Rohanne, you always know how to be inspiring,” he laughs. “But thank you. I will make sure to do that, _if_ we survive this rebellion.”

 _Gods, I hope we do_ , she thinks.

“I am sure we will,” she says, and then wishes him goodnight before letting herself out. He’s still somewhat smiling as he waves at her and she does the same.

She thinks, _if only you could look like that all time_ , and then goes back to her room.

Whatever happens tomorrow, she’s relieved Jaime’s _not_ going to guard the king. After what happened yesterday –

She hopes that they get that damned raven from the Stoney Sept soon, because she can’t watch him suffer this much longer, she can’t watch Elia Martell kill herself with worry over a man who honestly did _not_ deserve her and who she honestly hopes _will_ see reason when he arrives at the Stoney Sept.

Gods, she hopes he will, if anything because with the reputation he has and with how it clashes with what she’s learned up to this point, one would hope that he would think smartly and live up to his damned reputation.

Then she thinks that he didn’t think it a problem to leave Jaime to handle his father and protecting his wife and children _on his own_ and she just hopes that she isn’t seeing what _Jon_ saw in him and that there’s more to him than what it seems like _to her_.

In her entire life, she’s never hoped so much to be wrong.

\--

The next day, she wonders how the Brienne of Tarth who left her home to follow Renly to his or her death would think of herself _now_.

It’s not that the king ever talks to _her_ much when she’s guarding him. Good thing, because she can distract herself thinking about more pleasurable things. But sometimes he remembers she exists, and as he tells her that it’s quite amusing how _she_ seems to have more guts than the actual Kingsguard member in the castle she replies _thank you, Your Grace_ , but thinks at the same time, _laugh for now because you’re going to be dead in a moon’s time and I won’t shed a tear over it_.

Her seventeen-year old self would have abhorred thinking of a _king_ that way, she thinks sadly.

But she’s not seventeen anymore and just the idea that he dares comparing the two of them when she’s been here for less than two months and Jaime’s been here for _years_ and had to endure worse than she has is just so maddening, she can’t think otherwise.

 _He has ten times the guts you think he has, and certainly more than your son or anyone else in this guard_ , she thinks, but of course doesn’t say.

She glances at the garden where Jaime seems entirely too happy to give Rhaenys a ride on his shoulders and tells herself that _at least_ her suffering is paying off somehow.

\--

Things do go moderately well for the next week or so. Whatever Aerys might be planning to do, he _doesn’t_ burn anyone throughout that entire time, and it seems like having a two-day break from Aerys _does_ seem to work at least as far as Jaime’s sleeping habits are concerned.

Once she catches Elia crying softly into a fine silk

handkerchief as she looks at her sleeping children when she arrives for her shift in the morning and she hopes she never meets Rhaegar Targaryen in the future when she gets there, _if_ she gets there, or she might do something incredibly stupid.

Then Varys tells her that there might be a message for her at that same tavern, at the same time as when she got the first one.

Thankfully it’s on a day where she’s on Princess Elia duty and not Mad King duty, so she’s entirely in time when she gets there. The same handsome man from before, Eddard, is sitting at one table and she joins him.

“My lady,” he says. “Our common friend sends you this.” He hands her another raven and she pockets it.

“My thanks,” she replies. “Are you sure you don’t require payment?”

He laughs. “If you insist, a man who’s putting money aside from when his line of work won’t pay anymore won’t say no, but give that our _common friend_ left me gold dragons before he joined the army or whatever it is that he did, I’m fine without as well.”

Brienne has understood what line of work it might be. She reaches into her vest’s pocket and hands him a couple silver stags. “Sorry, I tend to not carry dragons around.”

“That’s fine enough, for having just brought a message. Well, I shall go or I would miss my shift, but can I give you some advice in exchange for your generosity?”

“Please, do.”

“I don’t know what it is that you do at the castle, but you look like someone who could stand to have some fun for one night or so. If I’m not your type, I have a few friends who might –”

She feels her cheeks go red at once. “Thank you,” she says, “but – there was a man. He died a short time ago. I – I don’t think I am quite ready for that kind of _fun_.”

He raises his hands. “My apologies. But if you change your mind, ask Lord Varys. And even if you don’t choose to have _that_ kind of fun, I would suggest you find a distraction. Every client I get with eyes like yours, is a client who ends up fainting if they stay longer than an hour. Have a good night,” he says, curtsying slightly, and then he leaves.

Good gods, she thinks, if _a whore_ who knows her because Jon most likely paid for his services can guess that by looking at her for a minute, she can’t imagine what he’d have said when it comes to Jaime.

She looks down at the table, remembering one night just before Jon Snow left Winterfell to go fight the damned White Walkers and it was time for the beginning of the end to start.

 _Have you ever drunk for pleasure_ , Jaime had asked.

 _Not really_ , she had replied.

 _Wench,_ he had said, _we might die in a week’s time. You shouldn’t leave this world without having had some genuine fun once_.

 _I don’t know if I trust your definition of genuine fun_.

 _But do you trust_ me _?_ He had asked, and of course she did, and so she told him to show her, and he had found a full bottle of Dornish somewhere, possibly from his brother, and they shared it on the ramparts until the both of them were pleasurably drunk and _giddy_ from it, and she had told him a lot of embarrassing things that didn’t feel _so_ embarrassing at that point, and he had told her that at some point when he had seen snow falling in Riverrun he had rued having had one hand only because you can’t make snowballs without a full set, and then he told her he used to throw them at his brother once. Then they had looked at each other and she had told him she was willing to give him a hand, and they had found Tyrion in the godswood where Jaime _did_ throw at him a fair number of snowballs that she had shaped for him, and Tyrion himself hadn’t looked too sad about it. Then they sparred, or tried to, because they were both so tipsy that they couldn’t hold their swords properly, and then they had walked up back to their room more or less keeping each other upwards, and then she had pushed him against the mattress and they had kissed once, twice, while she was holding him down against the mattress, and –

It’s probably _not_ what she should think about now, because _this_ Jaime isn’t the one whose moans she’d swallow and who begged her to keep his arms still when she rode him and who’d look up adoringly at her like no one had ever done up until that point.

But maybe, not counting _that_ , maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. She checks how much money she has left – enough, she thinks.

Brienne stands up, goes to the tavern’s owner and asks him if she can buy a full bottle of _anything_ with that much money. He says she can have either cheap wine or medium-quality spiced rum from the Summer Isles. She picks the rum and heads back to the Red Keep.

\--

She’s glad she’s done it the moment she walks into the hallway and finds Jaime sitting outside her door, still in full white armor get-up, with his head hiding in between his knees.

“Jaime?” She asks him, worried that he looks like he might be throwing up. “What are you doing here?”

He looks up at her. Gods, he _has_ been crying.

“I couldn’t be arsed to walk back into the room,” he says. “Or better, I got as far as here and then my legs gave out and I couldn’t stand up anymore and while it’s hardly dignified, if you would help me up I would be plenty grateful.” It’s sarcastic, but he _is_ holding a hand out.

She grabs it and helps him up before opening the door to the room and leading him to the bed.

“What has he done now?

“What _hasn’t_ he done?” Jaime sighs. “Nothing new. But three executions in one day when I had gone weeks without were maybe too much. And he didn’t let me leave his side for a moment. Hells, I’m _tired_ ,” he admits, quietly, barely audible, and she wants to walk up to him and tell him the truth and that he deserves _better_ and that everyone is doing him so wrong she can’t even begin to quantify it.

Instead, she sits down next to him, bottle in hand.

“I have a proposition,” she says.

“What – is that _rum_?”

She nods. “Did I tell you about that friend of mine I couldn’t kill?”

“The one who made you figure out you had to pick and choose your vows wisely?”

“He once said I wasn’t any fun and I should try it out more.”

“And he got you to _drink_?”

“We shared it,” she says, “at the end it wasn’t so bad. You don’t have to guard _him_ tomorrow and I can handle it. I was thinking we might share this one, too. But maybe not _now_.”

“Why, what are your plans for before?”

“You should go to the kitchens and find something to eat, then we should go to the gardens and have a _serious_ sparring session that I know you’ve been wanting since the first time we crossed swords, and _then_ we should share that bottle.”

“I – I don’t know,” he says, obviously tempted. “I mean, it sounds – tempting, especially the sparring session, but – we have a duty. We can’t just –”

“Can you swear on your honor that your other Kingsguard companions _never_ did something such as this?”

“I – I probably couldn’t.”

“So why not? You need a break. _I_ need a break. How much can it hurt?”

She holds his stare, suddenly wanting this _very_ badly because if everything goes to the seven hells later then she wants this evening to go _well_.

“You know what,” he says, “fuck that. You’re right. And I _have_ been wanting to fight you fairly since you showed up.”

He smiles tentatively and she smiles back, and she follows him out of the room, hiding the bottle in her cloak and bringing her sword along.

\--

He manages to find some food to eat, it’s not as if they could refuse him, and then he brings her to a secluded part of the gardens that he guarantees her are always empty at this time. She takes off her cloak, leaving the rum nestled inside it, and takes her sword out of its sheath, regretting that it cannot be Oathkeeper, but it would be asking too much.

He’s grinning tentatively as he takes his own sword.

“So,” he says, “shall we?”

She moves into position.

“Whenever you like,” she says, smiling, and this time she doesn’t let herself think about how she knows his strategies already and he’s not trying to beat her with Aerys’s eyes pointed at his back, and neither he has both hands tied like the only time they did this while he still had both –

And he’s _beyond_ magnificent, like this. If he’s not hindered by other thoughts or burdens, he fights like it’s in his blood, and _it is_ and she knows because it’s in hers, too, and they’re pretty much evened out at this point

(which makes her think, _how would he have been ten years from now, with both hands?_ )

and the more their blades kiss the more he grins openly, as if he missed just doing this for the sake of it, same as _she_ had, and by the time she’s short for breath and he is, too, neither of them has disarmed the other, they’ve gone through that path some five times if not more and they’re both covered in sweat, but it’s the good kind of.

“Hells,” he says as she blocks his hit, “you think you might settle for a tie?”

“Fine,” she replies, and they both lower their swords at the same time. “I think it _was_ a tie anyway and winning out of exhausting a more tired opponent isn’t fair.”

“Thanks for the consideration,” he laughs, and now he’s _really_ smiling, and it’s the exact same way he used to when he _meant_ it back in the day, and her knees are weak now and not just because she’s tired.

“So,” she says, grabbing the rum, “shall we?”

“Yes,” he agrees, “but not here. I have a better idea.”

\--

“Gods,” she asks him, “are you _serious_?”

Jaime laughs and then raises an eyebrow in obvious provocation. “I never do things halfway. And who’s in this tower except the two of us? What Ser Gerold doesn’t know, won’t hurt him,” he says, and then walks out on the Lord Commander’s balcony and hoists himself up, on the ledge of the White Sword Tower’s roof. “So, you coming or not?”

The risk of getting caught is honestly nothing in comparison to seeing him _this_ carefree, and so she hands him the bottle and hoists herself up next to him. He opens the bottle and takes a sip, immediately leaning back.

“Wow, it’s been months since I drank anything stronger than wine,” he says, “but it’s good. Here, your turn.” He hands the bottle over.

She takes a drink.

It burns down her throat, but in a pleasurable way, and the slight spiced hint just makes it better. She hands it back. He takes it.

\--

“Hells,” he says when they’re halfway through, “this city almost looks nice from up here.”

“Why, because it’s dark and you can barely _see it_?”

He laughs, taking the bottle back from her. “Fair, but there’s the moon. You can just pretend it’s not full of terrified and starving people who deserved better than the king they got.”

 _To think that you’ll give up your reputation for them_ , she doesn’t say.

“You’re right,” she agrees, “I’ll drink to that.”

“Here.” He hands it back to her. By now they’re both pleasurably tipsy, and his cheeks are a healthy pink instead of the usual unhealthy pale shade, even if he still has bags under his eyes and his eyes are way, way older than ten and seven. “Hells, you read stories all your life about how this city is magical and its castle holds treasures and so on, and then you find out no one would live here if they could and the castle only holds disappointments.”

“I know,” she agrees. “The Kingsguard really isn’t everything they say it is.”

“It’s _nothing_ like they say it is. Gods, if I had known I’d have never listened to her.”

“To – to her?” Brienne fakes. She knows _who_ they’re talking about. But she can’t _tell_ him now, can she?

“If I tell you, you might change your mind about how worthy I am of this cloak.”

“Ser, honestly,” she says, taking another swig, “nothing might change my mind about this cloak not being worthy of _you_ ,” she slurs on purpose, but then she meets his eyes and he’s suddenly gone serious again, and she’s not surprised when his next drink is longer and heartier than the previous ones.

“What if I told you I joined because I wanted to be like Ser Dayne, _and_ because my sister made a splendid case that if I did we’d always be together and I wouldn’t have to marry anyone else, because – because I love her?”

It’s most probably a good thing that she’s already heard this confession more than once, and she knew it even before she heard it _from him_.

“I’d say,” she says, after another drink, “that while I can’t say I would understand how one would _love their sister_ , that if you did it seems like a sound reason even if _to me_ wanting to be like Ser Dayne sounds like an entirely more – comprehensible decision. It’s your business, Jaime. Everything I’ve seen since we met makes me understand why would Ser Dayne knight you, I cannot judge you for that. But if you’re regretting it –”

“She’s not _here_ ,” he says. “Hasn’t been since I was appointed if not before, and it was – what you saw. Since _then_. Why _wouldn’t_ I regret it? But I can’t – I can’t say any of this now, _can I_?”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she assures him.

She’s tempted to ask him, _but how would you two have been together if she had to marry someone else?_ , but she doesn’t, because it would be unfair and even if she knows his sister is _not_ good for him, it would be just wrong to do it now when he’s in his cups and he obviously trusts her enough to share _that_.

No. She’s not going to point it out.

“And I’m sorry it worked out like this,” she adds, sincerely as he tips his head back and drinks again. “Hopefully they can negotiate with the rebels and this will change.”

“If only,” he agrees, handing her the last of the rum. “ _If only_. Anything as long as this torture’s over.”

She finishes the bottle. She looks at him, at his golden blonde hair bathed in the moonlight and puts a hand on his arm. “It will be,” she tells him, hoping that she’s right.

He doesn’t tell her to move her hand, and so she doesn’t.

\--

They manage to jump back on the balcony without breaking their necks and they stumble downstairs until they reach their hallway, more or less leaning on each other as they walk.

She’s less drunk than him, unsurprisingly, and so she opens his door and sits him down on the bed.

“Well,” she says, “I have a king to guard tomorrow. I should probably go.”

“I guess,” he tells her, “but – just – wait a moment.”

She does, standing in the middle of the room, and then he stands up, finding balance on his trembling legs, and then he moves up to her and throws his arms around her neck, and for a moment she’s taken by surprise so much that she only holds him back when he latches at her back way more forcefully.

“Jaime?” She asks.

“Rohanne,” he replies, “I don’t know why in the seven hells you’d _want_ to be here or why you’d stay, but there isn’t a damned moment when I’m not grateful you actually did. Just – I am.”

She has to really put serious effort into _not_ breaking out in tears. Instead she moves back enough to look at him, because there’s one thing she _has_ to tell him before everything possibly spirals out of control and before she goes back where she came from, if she survives it, if they all survive it.

“Well,” she says, “sometimes I don’t know why I’m here myself, but if my presence did anything to – make things better here, then I’m glad I did come. And – it doesn’t matter how many doubts you have. Real knights tend to have doubts, or at least all the real ones I met always did. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Especially Ser Darry or Ser Whent or whoever else might share their opinion.”

“Duly noted,” he says, squeezing her shoulders before letting her go, maybe a bit reluctantly. “I won’t. Or I’ll try not to.”

“Good. And don’t let anyone convince you that needing a hand once in a while is something bad.”

“All right,” he agrees, still smiling, showing a row of pearly white teeth, “that’s fair. Have – have a good night my lady.”

“Same to you,” she tells him, and if anything, she thinks it _is_ , because when she wakes up the next morning, she isn’t hearing him toss and turn in the next room over and she hasn’t been woken up throughout the night, either.

She dresses, and goes to the castle, and walks into the throne room, and does her duty until midday comes, as usual –

That is, until both Jaime and Elia walk inside the room, and the both of them have a horrified look in their eyes, and then Pycelle walks in from behind them while holding a raven in trembling hands, and Varys immediately leaves the King’s side to reach Pycelle’s.

Oh.

 _Oh_ , Brienne thinks, _is it –_

“Pycelle,” Aerys scoffs, “ _what_ it is?”

“Your – Your Grace – it’s –” The man starts muttering, and then Varys grabs the raven from his hands and his face goes remarkably pale, for someone who’s most definitely acting, because if this is the raven Brienne thinks it is, then he _knew_ already.

“Your Grace,” Varys says, “this is not signed, and was obviously sent in a hurry, but if what it says is true, and I think it is – well. Prince Rhaegar is dead and Robert Baratheon is marching towards us.”

For a moment, there’s a deafening silence.

And then Aerys stands up, his hands bleeding as they grip the blades on the throne’s armrests, and he says, clear and loud and unmistakably _mad_ , “Then let them, if they want to burn.”

She locks eyes with Jaime, seeing naked terror well up in both his own and Elia’s and most probably in hers.

She can’t say, _not as long as I live_. She also can’t say, _it’s most probably not true and it was the only way to save your life._

She can’t _say_ it, but she swears it to herself, and stands up straight.

From now on, she has to do what she came here for regardless of how much she will loathe it, and she _will_.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I'M SORRY. See you next time with WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED WITH JONC and then you get the resolution in chapter seven. HOPEFULLY I CAN BE FASTER THAN I WAS UP UNTIL NOW. /o\


	6. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Jon makes an ally, has a job to do and has to admit things to himself that he wishes he never had to, not necessarily in this order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH HEY uhm SORRY IT TOOK ME A BIT but it's... better than that time I left you waiting for a month and some /o\ anyway, here we go, that's what was happening with JonC while Brienne was busy cursing Aerys and trying to not out herself to poor Jaime in chapter five. Which means: PLOT! And next time we get MORE PLOT! and then you hopefully get the epilogue - I'm not making promises but I hope to have the entire thing wrapped up by March. Let's hope. Meanwhile here we go. Sincere apologies to JonC because I was particularly hard on him here but... I swear he'll get some karma too. *drops chapter and runs*
> 
> WARNING OF SORTS: Rhaegar is NOT looking very greatly in this. He's... not ENTIRELY looking terrible, but still, I didn't pay him any favors and I also had to consider some things which didn't help so like, if you're expecting Flawless Stuff from him just don't. At least as far as original!JonC is concerned. The second one has it better.

They’ve been at Stoney Sept for a couple of days when, _finally,_ Rhaegar shows up on the road coming up from the South.

Jon feels like fainting as he sees three figures, two of which clad in white, riding up at sundown – he can’t see their faces, but he’d recognize the Lord Commander’s height even without needing that, Ser Whent is obviously the one on the left, and in the middle –

 _In the middle_ –

 _No_ , he thinks, moving back towards the side of the path leading into the camp, along with other commoner soldiers in between which he’s been staying for now. _No, I mustn’t lose my head now_. Of course, his younger self is waiting ahead, ready to meet his – _their_ – silver prince, along with Ser Darry, Ser Barristan and a few golden cloaks who came with them, too. They _did_ agree that at some point he’d be called inside the tent in order to share his info directly with Rhaegar, so he – he won’t do anything stupid now.

Regardless of how much his entire being _yearns_ to do otherwise.

Gods, he hasn’t seen Rhaegar in how long, _sixteen years?_ No, longer. Eighteen, maybe? Maybe even longer. And now he will –

Now he will accomplish _nothing_ if he ends up looking like a lovestruck fool at the years he has now when he cannot afford it and when he has to look like someone experienced and seasoned and certainly not like a smitten girl of two and ten, regardless of how much his stomach is contorting over on itself at the mere thought of setting eyes on his silver prince all over again.

He stands up straight.

He also notices that Dayne isn’t here. Fair enough, _someone_ would have had to stay at the Tower of Joy, but still, he had figured Rhaegar might bring his closest friend and leave the Lord Commander behind. Then again, maybe bringing the _Lord Commander_ was a sounder strategy.

Never mind that. He waits until the three finally are out of the blinding sunlight and walk down the hill, under the shade, and Jon’s heart about stops at seeing Rhaegar the way he used to be, almost exactly as he remembered him. He’s a bit gaunter now, and he has lost a bit of weight, but the silver of his hair is the same lovely shade he remembered it in all these years, and the moment those amethyst eyes meet his for a moment as Rhaegar nods gracefully at all of them flanking the path he almost feels like fainting.

But then nothing happens and Rhaegar disappears into the tent along with _himself_ and the rest of what Kingsguard is in this camp, and Jon dares breathe again.

All right. _All right_. Rhaegar is here, and fine, it was obvious he was smiling perfunctorily at all of them, but what might one expect after such a trip? It took them a month and some to arrive here and as he had predicted, taking it slower than he had the first time around meant that by the time they did, Ned Stark had already come and made camp, so he cannot come to Robert’s aid the way he did before. They’re camping far enough from the village to see it swarmed with Stark, Baratheon and Arryn banners, but their own camp isn’t too far and it’s obvious that for now they’re living in a precarious truce. The moment they got news that Rhaegar was coming up and would be here in a few days they had proceeded to send over a messenger to the other side, asking for a parley to discuss a truce as soon as the prince came, and they received a positive answer this morning. Jon had been surprised – he had thought it would take longer, and be harder, but instead it hadn’t.

He chooses to see the positive side in this. Maybe, _maybe_ he’s owed a few strokes of luck after almost two decades of the contrary, he dares hope.

Meanwhile he glances at his own reflection in the armor plate of the man standing next to him for a moment – he hasn’t shaved for very long and his beard is more gray than ginger by now, while his younger self has taken care of doing that _and_ cutting his hair. Jon’s commoner armor – without fancy sigils or anything of the kind – is old and battered, and he’s cloaked in a Targaryen black and red cloak instead of his House’s colors. He hopes that it’s enough to fool people when he has to come into that tent and talk, but until now – well, until now all the people who _needed_ to see it did, but no one else even suspected.

He hopes it’s the same thing now, even if admittedly he _is_ cultivating a small fantasy in which Rhaegar recognizes him nonetheless and Jon gets to tell him everything and inform him that he _did_ try to get one of his sons on the Iron Throne and that he _did_ try to help the other out as much as he could, but he knows it’s moot and it’ll never happen, and it’s better if Rhaegar doesn’t know.

Still –

 _It would be sweet if he knew me_ , he dares think, and not to say.

Then he shakes his head, berating himself for even going _there_ – good gods, he’s _gone back in time_ , there’s the entire continent’s fate resting halfway on his shoulders and, more prosaically, at least the life of most people in King’s Landing and in the Red Keep as well, and he’s here thinking about how much he’s loved Rhaegar Targaryen and how much he loves him still, which will do _no one_ any good.

Least of all Rhaegar himself. When Darry comes out of the tent and says to break their ranks because it will be a while before they are all done discussing strategy, Jon stays close and busies himself helping the others getting the fires ready for dinner and such, if only to keep his mind off the matter at hand.

Gods. They have to convince Rhaegar _and_ the rebels that the best thing to do is leave things as they are, depose Aerys and have Rhaegar step up as king and possibly hoping that Robert Baratheon won’t mind marrying Lyanna Stark if she’s with child, because Jon has no illusions on the fact that Robert will _not_ relent on that, and honestly it would be a slight against the Dornish if Rhaegar _actually_ left Elia and disinherited his two children along the way.

 _Gods_ , Jon thinks, _and they have to live, too. All three of them._

He suddenly feels like his stomach has just turned into lead.

Fuck. Now _that_ will be interesting, since _he can’t know_ what’s going to go down in King’s Landing the moment the letter he has safely tucked into his pocket and that he’s brought with since before they left, ready to send it the moment he’ll know how this entire bloody matter goes. He just hopes that Brienne will manage her side of this sorry job, but he knows she can – she’s good at what she does and she’s honorable to the point where she wouldn’t risk the end of the world just to spare her own feelings, but still.

Still.

_Still._

He shakes his head and goes to gather some more firewood. He’s _not_ going to lose whatever optimism he has about this matter when he has no reasons to. He just has to wait until they’re done with niceties and he’s called in and he’ll make his case nicely and reasonably and of course Rhaegar will listen, because he _always_ listened to everyone, and the plan is fairly sound and he has all to gain from it.

Yes. It’s going to go over well. It _is_.

There’s no reason it should happen otherwise.

\--

He doesn’t have too long to wait, admittedly – Ser Whent comes to get him not later than maybe an hour from the moment Rhaegar arrived, and he’s quick to follow him back to the tent where Rhaegar is, along with _himself_ of course.

All right.

 _All right_.

 _I can do this_ , he thinks. If he _does this_ , he’s accomplished everything he set out to accomplish when he accepted that Hand of the King pin years ago and he’s not going to sabotage it with his own hands. Or his own one hand, as it is.

He walks inside. It’s large, and there’s a table covered in maps in the middle – of course – and with quill and paper on the side, but that’s not what Jon’s worried about. He takes in the rest of the occupants – Ser Barristan and Ser Darry are standing at the corners and his younger self and the Lord Commander are standing behind the table, and at his younger self’s side –

Rhaegar took out his armor and obviously changed into clean clothes – he’s clad in Targaryen black and red, a lot finer than anyone else’s of course, and Jon’s bursting with _how much_ he missed him, but –

No.

He cannot let anything show.

He breathes, trying to mask his turmoil as being in awe of standing in front of his future king, since he’s supposed to be a _commoner_ here.

“Your Grace,” he says, bowing. “My lords.”

“You may stand,” Rhaegar says, and _fuck_ , Jon is _not_ going to weep just at hearing his voice. He’s _not_. “I am afraid we don’t have time for such formalities, Ser –”

“Roland,” Jon remembers to say before his own name escapes his lips.

“Right. Lord Connington told me but I’m afraid I missed it in between all the information he had given me. So, he said _you_ have information as far as the rebels are concerned?”

He stands and comes closer – no one tells him not to. He stops just when he sees his younger self glaring at him; he figures that it’s as close as he should get before anyone starts noticing they have the same eyes.

“I suppose you have been informed that I traveled with the northern army in order to get a safe passage towards King’s Landing.”

“I have.”

“Very well. I learned there of the plans concerning Stoney Sept and that Robert Baratheon would hide here while Ned Stark rallied the rest of the army and then he’d join him.”

“As we all can see,” Rhaegar agrees. “Lord Connington said you heard more, though. Which is why he said he’s considering _talking_ to them rather than fighting them.”

Right. If he gets _this_ wrong, they’re all dead.

“Yes,” he says. “For one, the morale in the army is grime – everyone agrees that they should fight, of course, and they see the point of it, but they don’t like fighting _you_. The – the one they rue is the King, sorry to say.”

“I can imagine why,” Rhaegar says, shrugging slightly. He sounds weary. Of course he would. “Do go ahead.”

“Of course I couldn’t talk to either Ned Stark or Baratheon, especially because I was trying to disguise myself, but from what the rumors said, Ned Stark and Jon Arryn have nothing against _you_ , Your Grace. The one who has a grudge is Robert Baratheon, I am afraid, but from what I gathered two out of the three of them would be satisfied with seeing your father removed and you in his place, and Hoster Tully would most likely follow since his daughter is married to _Ned Stark_ , not Robert Baratheon. There is a very likely chance that war might be avoided if our side talks to theirs and finds an agreement.”

“Hm,” Rhaegar muses. “This all makes a lot of sense, but – no, I can guess why my presence would be necessary.”

At _that_ , Jon kind of feels taken aback – _why_ would it even be a question? Of course, it’s necessary. If _the person supposed to take Aerys’s place_ is there to argue that option it’s a lot stronger message instead of having a middleman speaking for them.

“If only petty politics weren’t involved when it comes to the state of _our existence_ ,” Rhaegar whispers, and Jon shudders at once – so he _knew_. “Never mind. I suppose this has to be carried out as soon as possible. Did you contact the rebel camp already?”

“Indeed,” Jon’s younger self says, “we are meeting them on the morrow midway in between here and the village.”

“Very well,” Rhaegar agrees, clapping him on the shoulder.

Jon almost winces at how he _knows exactly_ how is younger self is feeling right now.

Most likely, as if he’d leave this world happy if he dropped dead on the ground instantly, and the worst thing is that he knows that if Rhaegar had done that to _him_ he’d have felt the same. He quiets the pang of jealousy he felt because _really_ , being jealous of himself isn’t a thing he should be considering, and waits for the next part.

“Ser Gerold, what do you say?”

“That it’s a sound idea,” the Lord Commander says. “Surely no one would want a war to potentially upset the status of things, especially not with the King so… volatile, I suppose we could say. Also with the fact that Lord Lannister hasn’t exactly said on whose side he wants to be in this war it would be _very_ prudent to just end this without fanfare or bloodshed and go back to King’s Landing with our positions secured.”

“That’s also true,” Rhaegar agrees. “Did you already think of the terms?”

Jon tries to not show how nervous he’s getting. They _did_. Well, he had, and then argued about it with _himself_ for half of this journey, and he compromised on some things and not on others. He just hopes that his double stands his ground, because if he doesn’t then they’re all fucked to the seven hells and back. But then again, there shouldn’t be the need. The terms are all fairly reasonable, he thinks.

And he suggested that _knowing_ how it went the first time around.

“Well, they should agree to lay arms and bend the knee immediately, to _you_. Then, they would relinquish any right of deciding how to deal with the King – of course, the general agreement is that he has to step down and that you shall follow him, but _you_ would be the one deciding how to punish him for his wrongdoings – because they _will_ demand some justice for Brandon and Rickard Stark, if anything. But, of course, it should be _you_ taking that decision.”

“That sounds fair,” Rhaegar agrees, blanching slightly at the mention of the dead Stark men. “Then?”

Jon sees his younger self obviously bracing for the next part, which is not as _favorable_.

“Well, we’d give them all amnesty. It wouldn’t do to kill them or their soldiers if they accept to lay down arms when they only raised them after the Stark men died.”

Rhaegar holds his stare for a moment, but then he nods. Wearily, but he does. “I suppose that’s also fair. Would they accept to bend the knee, though?”

“Our man did confirm that two out of four leaders would agree with that and the third would most likely follow them. Of course, the fourth is a _problem_ , but I suppose that we could negotiate and maybe grant the Baratheons a marriage within the family at worst.”

“Very well, then I suppose we shall talk to Lord Robert tomorrow. But I can hear that you haven’t said your entire piece, my lord.”

Jon knows that _he_ is bracing himself for it. _Jon_ is also bracing himself.

 _Gods, I hope this one goes over as well as the other two_.

“I imagine Ned Stark will want to know what is of his sister.”

At that, Rhaegar’s spine goes rigid.

 _Damn_ , Jon thinks, _please don’t let her be dead before her due time, or we’re all fucked, and she deserved better._

“ _Knowing of_ is said soon,” Rhaegar says. “She’s doing fine and that’s all I can tell him.”

“I doubt he will content himself with it,” Jon says tentatively.

“Well, he will have to.”

“Your Grace,” the Lord Commander interrupts, “Lord Connington does have a point. And on top of that, Robert Baratheon was betrothed to her.”

“Does the fact that she was not interested in him matter any?” Rhaegar replies, his tone very even.

“I doubt that,” Ser Gerold answers. “If anything, he will want her back, I have a feeling.”

 _Good thing_ he _said it,_ Jon thinks. If it had come from his younger self it wouldn’t have made things easier, and from _him_ – he cannot do that now, can he?

“I am afraid that will not be possible,” Rhaegar says. “Since I married her.”

 _Oh, fuck_ , Jon thinks, and from what he sees, _everyone else_ in the room bar Ser Gerold has thought the exact same thing.

 _Thankfully_ , it seems like his younger self has found the voice to ask _the_ obligatory following question. “Rhaegar, you _haven’t_ annulled the marriage to Elia, _have you_?”

“Of course _not_ ,” Rhaegar replies. “My children are the heads of the dragon, I wouldn’t disinherit them such. But I certainly won’t have the third be baseborn.”

Jon is almost proud of _himself_ as his younger self holds the stare. “Very well, but how will the Martells take it?”

Rhaegar shrugs. “It is not unheard of that a Targaryen took more than one wife and in this case it’s a vital necessity that both of them are. The Martells will accept it, same as the Starks, or we’re all _dead_. The reason I did it is beyond such petty squabbles.”

Well, all right, _it is_ , and Jon wants to go up there and say, _I know, but it didn’t work out so well for any of us the first time and I know how to fix it and it’s not like this_. Good thing that at least Lewyn Martell is assembling Dornish forces and hasn’t made it here in time or they’d be all… more than royally fucked, Jon thinks grimly.

That said – he told his younger self _how it went_ so many times he could throw up just _thinking_ of it.

He just hopes that he keeps on holding his ground for how much it might hurt, because it’s _hurting him so_ , but –

“So what should we tell them tomorrow?” _He_ asks instead, and _no._ No, _why didn’t he insist?_

“Give them the terms that you listed just now. Maybe we can concede something more. But Lyanna Stark isn’t marrying Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark is _not_ to know where she is at all costs.”

The tone is so _definitive_ that no one could disagree.

“Fine,” his younger self agrees a moment later, and Jon wants to _scream_. “But may I have a word with you alone, Your Grace?”

“Of course. Anyone else, you may leave. I think this conversation is over.”

He barely even glances Jon’s way as he bows and leaves the room first.

 _He didn’t recognize me_ , Jon thinks bitterly as he walks out, but then again, _that was the point_ , wasn’t it?

Still.

 _Still_.

He leaves, but then he immediately walks to the back of the tent and checks over until he finds a small hole in it, and then he proceeds to stand nearby so he can actually hear what they’re saying – he can’t see unless he makes it obvious, and he’d rather not do it.

“ – all right, Rhaegar, but _why can’t Stark know_?”

“Because,” Rhaegar replies, “that child has to live and I cannot risk anyone interfering with it.”

“I doubt Ned Stark would care for it, from what I know.”

“It would still be the child of a woman who was promised to someone else and Ned Stark is not his whole family nor Robert, and – I will have to admit that Lyanna – the pregnancy could be going better. I thought she’d be stronger than Elia,” he says, low enough that Jon can barely hear it.

 _It could be going better_.

Good gods, he’s glad he sent that maester along –

“Actually, thank you for sending that maester with. It was good thinking.”

He dares glancing through the hole. Rhaegar has an arm on _him_ again and he knows, he just _knows_ that whatever Rhaegar says now he will not refuse it.

He knows, because he _wouldn’t_ have, back in the day.

Now, though –

“I thought it might be helpful,” his younger self says. Jon can hear his own voice shaking.

 _Hells_.

“It was. Nevertheless, should things go astray, that child is virtually defenseless and I could not impose him on Elia, which is why Arthur has orders in case things _do_ go wrong.”

“So – so that’s why _he_ is at the Tower?”

“Yes,” Rhaegar says, “and that’s why Ned Stark _can’t know_. Of course, we all hope nothing bad happens and everyone survives the delivery.”

“Of course,” he agrees. “And may I ask which are Arthur’s orders?”

“As long as you keep it a secret,” Rhaegar whispers.

“Of course I would,” Jon-but-younger replies, and Jon doesn’t know if he wants to hear this, but he’s here, he has to to.

“If _anything_ goes awry, he’s to take the child and go to Essos and come back only when he’s old enough to know that his destiny is to help stop evil from taking over the whole world. I _know_ it’s not ideal, but it’s _necessary_ , and I cannot risk anyone harming that child or changing the plan. Our survival rests on it. The coming of the Long Night rests on it. Of course, I doubt _he_ is the Prince that was Promised, that one is Aegon, but still, there have to be _three_ heads of the dragon. And he – or she – will be the third. I think a she. Anyhow, do you understand why _they cannot know_?”

“Of course,” Jon’s younger self says, and with those two little words Jon thinks that he has just signed their own demise. “They won’t.”

“Good,” Rhaegar says, clapping him on his shoulder, again. “Then I shall see you before dinner. It’s been a long ride and I should take some rest.”

“Of course. I will see you later.”

Jon can _hear_ it in _his_ own younger voice that at this point he won’t call Rhaegar back and ask him to think back on it. So, he moves away from his precarious position and waits for Rhaegar to leave the tent, and then, rather than think about the specifics of _that_ plan, because he just _can’t_ right now, he slips inside the tent before anyone can notice him.

“What in the seven hells,” he hisses the moment he’s sure no one can hear him.

At least, when his own younger face looks at him, it’s… somewhat apologetic.

“You heard him,” he replies. “Do you think he’s going to be swayed?”

“Do I think – that’s _not_ the bloody point!” He tries to keep his voice low, but it’s very hard right now.

Damn it, he’s _arguing with himself_.

If he only gets a headache out of this, he will feel entirely relieved.

“Oh, really?”

“ _Really_. For – I _told you_ that if this war is fought we’re _all_ dead. Good gods, I _know_ that he thinks he’s saving us all, but he’s _dooming_ us all by going ahead with that plan and you _could_ have insisted.”

“Oh, because you would have in my place?”

Fine. That was a low but fair blow. “Not in _your_ place, but if someone had told me what I told _you_ I’d have tried a bit harder, I think. Gods, I _told_ you that Ned Stark compromises his honor for his entire life in order to save that baby and he never told a soul where I came from, would it have been so hard to try and convince him that knowing Stark there was no need to worry for that child’s safety?”

“That happened in _your_ world, not in this one. What do I know if it’s still valid?”

“It _is_ , fuck it – damn. Damn. We’re all dead.”

“Now I think you are being exceedingly pessimist.”

“Because you think Robert Baratheon will acquiesce to those requests? And do you think Ned Stark will content himself with Aerys stepping down when _he doesn’t even know where his sister is_? They won’t. And neither would I, truth to be told.”

“Careful now, you sound like you’re on _their_ side.”

 _Why was I such a stubborn idiot when I was young?_ , Jon asks himself and doesn’t say out loud.

“Don’t,” he says. “I lost too much for you to even dare _assume_ that. I’m on the side of whatever saves Rhaegar’s life _and the entire world’s_ , and in this case making compromises is _somewhat_ necessary.”

“Just have some faith in him, won’t you? You’re _me_. I know you have it. He’ll get us that truce.”

His younger self sounds so _sure_ of that, Jon wishes he could share even half of that enthusiasm.

“I cannot exactly do anything as it is,” he concedes. “I just hope you’re right. But I don’t really think you are, or that _he_ is, and like this he’s digging his own grave. And I’ve – I’ve had to bear news of his death once. I’m _not_ watching it happen in front of me because _you_ couldn’t tell him no for once.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

Jon has to laugh at that. Very bitterly, though.

“Of course it is.” He holds up his severed arm. “And _this_ is what it brought me. Grayscale, exile, seeing both his two survived children die in front of me, losing everything I ever owned _and_ the end of the world. I made mistakes. I was just hoping _you_ wouldn’t, but at this point we’re in the hands of the – the gods, I suppose. Let’s just hope you’re right.”

He doesn’t say _the old gods_ just out of catching himself before doing it, even if by now he’s plenty sure that _they_ exist, and the Seven _really_ might not, given how helpful they’ve been throughout his life.

Then he slips outside the tent, tries to not think of _anything_ until he finds a small group of people who lets him sit around their fire for dinner, eats and excuses himself to lay down his bedroll and try to sleep.

Try being the key word, because –

Because _what has happened to Rhaegar?_

That – that’s not the man he knew. The man he knew wouldn’t have come up with such a cold plan, nor he’d have left Arthur behind just to smuggle that baby away without a care in the world for a woman he supposedly _loved_ , so much he started a war for her.

Then again – he _has_ left behind Elia and his other two children, didn’t he?

Maybe it’s the weight of what he has to do, Jon thinks. Maybe it’s that Rhaegar _obviously_ would go to any length to save the world from the Long Night, and that’s fair, because that’s exactly what he’s trying to do, but – but he cannot believe that he can’t see how his decisions will just ruin everything and cause a war anyway.

To think that Rhaegar didn’t even think much of fighting until –

 _Until he found out that the Long Night was coming_ , Jon tells himself.

Still – it’s obvious he hasn’t, because it’s just a _bad_ strategy all around, and what he was thinking when he _married_ Lyanna Stark _while being married to Elia already?_ As if the situation wasn’t horrible already, _seven hells_.

Never mind that he _did_ blanch at the mention of Rickard and Brandon Stark before. Jon doesn’t want to ask himself that question, but – _but does Lyanna Stark even know?_ Because if she doesn’t –

 _If she doesn’t_ –

The Lord Commander had gone to the Tower of Joy exactly to inform Rhaegar of what had transpired, so he definitely knew. But he can’t know if he told _her_. And now she’s alone, in an isolated tower in _Dorne_ surrounded by the desert, pregnant and with a pregnancy _not going so well_ , and Rhaegar doesn’t even want her to see her brother _but_ Arthur has orders to run with her child if things _go awry_? (And if they don’t, maybe to run with _the both of them_?)

That’s not the man he knows.

That’s not the man he _loves_.

Still –

He’s obviously not thinking straight. That must be the explanation. There’s _no other_ explanation, Jon tells himself as he falls into a very fitful sleep from which he wakes up three different times, and in _all_ of them he sees Jon Snow’s pale, lifeless body falling over pure white snow just a few hours after he said that he regretted having never been South in his entire life when he was actually born there, as far as he knew.

The next morning, no one tries to talk to him as they take up their weapons and head down for the meeting point – they can see movement on the other side of the village, as well.

He has a very, _very_ bad feeling about how these negotiations will go.

\--

“No,” Robert Baratheon replies immediately as Rhaegar finishes laying out the terms.

Jon is _absolutely_ not surprised of that, because _of course_ he’d say no, and the only silver lining is that he can see Ned Stark’s face grimacing into a pained expression where he stands, a few steps behind Robert – or better, it’s not a silver lining because he just heard that Rhaegar has no intention of returning his sister to him, but still, he had looked hopeful when the entire conversation had started, and it was obvious that he was hoping very much for a peaceful resolution which he can see slipping from under his fingers right now.

Too true.

Jon feels exactly the same way, and the only satisfaction he has in this is that at least his own, idiotic younger self is _cringing_.

Good, because _he_ told _himself_ so, didn’t he?

“No?” Rhaegar replies, very calmly. “These are very good terms, Lord Baratheon.”

“They might’ve been, until you got to the very last one,” Robert says, not even bothering to sound courteous nor to mince his words. “We are here for Lord Stark’s father and brother, but they wouldn’t be dead if _you_ hadn’t run off with his sister. You cannot presume to strike a truce and convince us to bend the knee if you aren’t returning her.”

Thing is – _he’s right_ , as much as Jon doesn’t want to admit it.

And he _really_ doesn’t want to admit it. Not at all.

But, of course, they wouldn’t bend the knee if they aren’t given Lyanna Stark back.

“I see,” Rhaegar says, entirely too calmly. _Why, why, why?_ “But you do realize that the rest of the terms were extremely favorable, Lord Baratheon.”

“ _Lord Targaryen_ ,” Robert spits back, and Jon flinches at it – _that_ was a low blow –, “they were, but I didn’t go through the effort of raising arms against you and your bloody bastard of a father just to bend the knee if you aren’t even willing to say _where my betrothed is_ , when your actions are what caused all of us to be here in the first place.”

Ned Stark comes closer and puts a hand on Robert’s arm, but he’s quickly pushed away.

Jon can sympathize.

“I could agree with you in place of your father – _that_ would be acceptable, and all the other terms were absolutely acceptable. But _not even telling us where she is –_ that is out of the question. _She_ ’s the reason we’re all here.”

Jon looks at Rhaegar – he’s staring ahead, and he hopes with all his might that he _won’t_ say he married her.

Gods, please, _no_.

“Then it seems like we’re at an impasse,” Rhaegar says, and at least he sounds like someone with the situation under his control. “None of us wants to shed blood nor fight, both of us want my father gone, but you won’t bend the knee even if we agree on pretty much almost everything?”

“Not when you’re _not_ addressing the very reason we are all here.”

“My lord, I understand that you are angry, but I can assure you that she wouldn’t be any happier if married to _you_.”

 _Gods, no_ , Jon thinks, horrified, and he can see that Robert’s going very pale under his dark beard – pale with _anger_ , though.

Good thing Stark grabs at his arm and hisses _something_ and he calms down.

Hells, he knows how Rhaegar died. Robert has no hammer, not now when they came to _talk_ , but he most surely has it with him, and he’s _heard_ of how he smashed Rhaegar’s head on the ground along the trident, and at the idea he just wants to hurl. They cannot go there. They must _not_ go there or all is lost.

“I think,” Robert says, “that we should settle this ourselves.”

“How, if I may ask?”

“You’re a valiant fighter. I am as well. We are both weaponless, and surely you rode from somewhere _far_ to arrive here and I have rested for a long time. Never let it be said that I would go into battle with my enemy at a disadvantage. I say we meet tomorrow at this hour and we fight, man to man. Whoever wins has the right of it.”

Jon has barely the time to notice Ned Stark’s eyes widen in terror just before Rhaegar _smiles_ and says –

“I shall be glad to accept, Lord Baratheon,” he replies, with all the calm in the world.

No.

No, no, _no_ , Jon wants to scream, but he _can’t_ , and he’s standing motionless as he watches them shake their hands and agreeing to meet here at midday again and to duel _to their deaths_ , and the only thing he can think is, _I failed._

 

_Again._

\--

“You _have_ to get him to change his mind,” he hisses at his double after ambushing him a long time later – the sun has just set on the horizon line and of course all the present Kingsguard _and_ his own self had been planning all day, _without_ calling for his advice. Most probably, following your younger self out into the woods while he goes to take a piss is _not_ ideal, but he’ll take what he can get.

“Are you out of _your own_?” He gets as a reply. “He’s set on it. He won’t.”

“Oh, for – I fucking told you, if he ever fights Robert, _he dies_.”

“Maybe not this time.”

“You cannot bet on the fact that _maybe_ he’ll have a stroke of luck and it won’t happen!” He’s about to scream, except that he _can’t_ and he just wants to hurl instead. “Robert is a much better and seasoned fighter, he’s stronger, he has very good reasons to want Rhaegar dead and has probably spent his entire time at the Stoney Sept to imagine all the ways in which he’d like to smash his hammer into Rhaegar’s face. Rhaegar might have rested for the entire day but he learned to fight later than Robert, he’s a very competent swordsman but _Jaime Lannister_ at seventeen is better than he is right now and we all knew it back in the day, and _he has no idea_. This ends with Rhaegar _dying_ , don’t you see it?”

“And if you remember anything about how it is to be _me_ right now, you should know that I cannot convince him to do otherwise. I would, if I could. And you _know_ how much I don’t want him to face danger, but ultimately _he_ is my king and _he_ decides. Not me.”

“Of course,” Jon groans. “But – try. Please, try. Like this, he just ruins everything with his own two hands.”

His own eyes stare back at him. “I will,” comes as a reply. “But don’t expect me to succeed. Believe me, I wish I could.”

 _He_ stalks away and Jon –

Jon wants to cry.

Instead, he decides that maybe if he takes a _long_ walk to clear his head, _maybe_ he’ll find a way out of this.

\--

Easier said than done.

He’s walked for he doesn’t know how long – by now he’s in rebel territory – and he’s keeping to the woods. Hopefully no one finds him wandering.

And all along he tries to figure it out, but –

 _But_ –

What the hell should he do? Rhaegar won’t listen, but if _he_ dies they’re all fucked to the Seven Hells and back – Bran Stark was clear. Rhaegar _has_ to live, most likely because he’s the only one who _knows_ about the Long Night and how to prevent it, and if he goes against Robert in single combat he _will_ die. Jon knows it in his bones – Robert almost slew _him_ , back in the day, and he survived for some kind of miracle, and Jon is maybe not a natural as Rhaegar was when he picked up a sword for the first time – Rhaegar is competent _at least_ in everything and he immediately took to swordfighting – but he’s been trained to fight since he was _much_ younger than his prince, and _he_ could barely escape the man back then. Robert is better than the both of them put together – such a fight can only end horribly for _them_.

And if he fails _here_ , whatever Brienne does in King’s Landing is in vain because if Rhaegar dies – gods, maybe the other children would live, if she saves them and Elia, but still, he cannot risk that. He cannot risk _any_ of that. He can’t do this _assuming_ that things might go a certain way and he can’t leave this damned place if a truce isn’t reached.

At this point, he thinks, they need to find a different solution. If either side won’t relent it would be hard, but – but then again, _why_ should they decide for a person who is not here?

Maybe – maybe convincing them that they should be at peace until they can ask Lyanna Stark what does _she_ want and with whoever in between her husband and her former betrothed she would prefer staying, they could avoid that damned duel and it would be a fairly good compromise for all of them, and Lyanna Stark probably would appreciate.

And that’s all good and proper, but how does he break it to Rhaegar, or better, how does he convince _himself_ to break it to Rhaegar and how does _anyone_ get Robert Baratheon to consider it? He needs someone on the rebel side to do it, and good luck to him finding such a person – anyone in _that_ army would murder him on sight and he knows no one in it.

Damn it, _damn it_ , how does he go about this? _How –_

“ – gods, if you’re there, I _really_ need your help.”

Wait.

That was someone else.

Someone else nearby, who is _not_ sounding happy.

Jon follows the voice’s sound – it’s not far – and reaches a small clearing. There’s a single heart tree in the wood, and someone’s in front of him.

Someone in grey Stark colors.

 _Ned Stark_ , Jon realizes.

He’s touching the tree’s bark reverently, and he really did sound desperate as he said it. Jon waits.

“I know Robert was right,” Stark goes on, “and if anyone knows how much I want Lyanna back, it’s you, I suppose. But this is going to end horribly whichever way it goes, I just know. _Please_ help us out now if you’re here and you ever heard us.”

For a moment, Jon just stands still – he has to think this through, and _fast_.

Stark is here. Stark is _alone_. Stark is obviously sharing at least some of Jon’s fears here, even if maybe not coming from the same side. Stark _asked the gods for a sign_.

Jon should _really_ talk to him and see if he can somehow help out. Of course, that would mean _telling_ him that he comes from the future, and that would be a goddamned problem, wouldn’t it, _but_ –

But what does he have to lose? If he doesn’t do this, they’re fucked. If he does, _maybe_ they’re not. And fine, maybe he should have kept any information for himself about _when_ he comes from, and if he tells _Ned Stark_ he risks greatly because if _his son_ sent them back who knows if he creates some – some kind anomaly, and he shouldn’t have even told Varys for that matter, but…

But either he tells Stark or they’re _all_ dead. It’s not much of a decision now, is it?

“Lord Stark?” He calls out.

Stark immediately turns towards him, sword in hand, but then lets it drop back into the scabbard when he sees that his interlocutor is a man _without an arm_ coming towards him with his remaining one raised up.

“Do I know you?” He asks.

“Yes and no,” Jon sighs. “And I think I know how to help you, even if it might seem unlikely.”

“How to _help_ me?”

“More so, I think we can help each other out,” Jon replies.

“Wait,” Stark says, “ _why_ does your voice sound familiar?”

 _He’s realizing it and Rhaegar didn’t even blink_ , Jon thinks sadly. “Because it should be,” he says. “Can I come forward? Mayhaps the moonlight would help you realize _why_.”

“Fine,” Stark says. “I am not eager to play any games, but we shall see, I – I suppose.” He barely says the last two words, because at that point Jon _has_ moved right where the moonlight hits the clearing.

Stark is staring at him as if he’s seen some kind of ghost.

 _Gods,_ Jon thinks again, _he barely knows my younger self, but_ he _is figuring it out in a moment, isn’t he?_

“Ser,” Stark says, slowly, “either I’m dreaming or you look like the Hand of the King, except older, and I am sure that the Hand of the King looked his usual today. Care to explain me _what does this mean_ , especially since you also have the same voice?”

“Are you willing to believe something… quite unusual?”

“If it means I get to avoid this war and save my sister, I am willing to hear you out.”

“Very well.” He breathes in. “I _am_ , in fact, the Hand of the King. I just – I come from the future.”

“ _From the future_ ,” Stark replies, not sounding particularly impressed.

“Yes. Have you ever heard of the three-eyed crow?”

“That’s – some kind of greenseer who’s supposed to live with the Children of the Forest, isn’t he? But – he’s some legend, isn’t he?”

“… He is, though he’s a lot more powerful than just a greenseer since _he sent me back in time,_ and no, he isn’t. It’s just – a job people inherit, I suppose. Very well. I need you to listen to me and let me tell you the entire story before you call for help and kill me.”

“I won’t,” Stark immediately says. “It would hardly be honorable of me. And I would like to know how you, a _Lord_ , are dressed like a common soldier, on top of that.”

“Because there’s another _me_ around, my lord. Anyway, I will – start from the end. It will be easier. Where I come from – it’s seventeen years from now. And the Long Night has come.”

“The – _the Long Night_?”

“Yes. Again. And – His Grace, I mean, Rhaegar, he read of it in a prophecy. That prophecy – as far as I know and as far as we all could guess back _when_ I come from, was clear in saying that _he_ was the key to stop it. That was why he took up fighting and whatnot. But it also said that in order to defeat the Others, there will be three dragons and they shall have three _heads_ to ride them, and one of them is the Prince that was promised, and _all_ of them have to be Rhaegar’s children. That – that didn’t quite go as predicted.”

“It _didn’t_.”

“What happened was that _I_ fought Robert here before you joined him, I was sorely beaten and then exiled, Rhaegar came back _then_ , Robert killed him at the Trident and at the same time Tywin Lannister stormed King’s Landing. Gregor Clegane killed both Elia and Rhaenys – Aegon was smuggled out and brought to me in Essos, and I raised him for sixteen years and then brought him back to Westeros to take his father’s place. Meanwhile, Jaime Lannister killed Aerys before he could blow up King’s Landing with wildfire and Robert claimed the throne.”

“Good gods,” Stark says. “Go on.”

 _Well, he’s not telling me to fuck off at least._ “Your sister – she was – she _is_ carrying Rhaegar’s third child. By the time you reached her – well, no one knew except for _you_ and Howland Reed, but as far as I know, you got there as she was dying after giving birth to that child. You took him in and lied about the parents, and said he was yours even if it was a stain on your honor. You never told the truth to anyone – it came out a long time later.”

“Did – did I die?”

“Yes,” Jon admits, “but _almost everyone_ did, because while Rhaegar’s sister found some way to hatch dragons and your son – _his_ son – was more than willing to step up to the challenge, same as his half-brother, it was too late by that point. No one knew, no one had a clue of how that prophecy was supposed to go, both of Rhaegar’s children died in front of my eyes after their aunt, and at the point when the – three-eyed crow made his presence known and sent me back along with another person to try and prevent everyone’s death, the Wall had fallen and Westeros was as good as a wasteland.”

“I want to say this is ridiculous,” Stark says, “but I can hear that you’re serious. Gods. I can hear there’s more. Go ahead.”

 _Thank the gods he’s actually listening_.

“Me and – this other person, who’s currently in King’s Landing, were sent back with a mission. The – the three-eyed crow, he said he could see various futures. The only one where we all survived was – one where Rhaegar _and_ his children lived _but_ Aerys died, the same way he did back when we came from. So – I was in charge of keeping Rhaegar alive, and the other knight is in charge of making sure his father dies. And as you can see from today’s negotiations, it’s _not_ going the way I was hoping it would.”

“How are you _here_ , though?”

“I am in agreement with _myself_ ,” Jon laughs. “We try to not spend too much time next to each other, you see.”

“I see, because it’s plenty damn obvious you’re the same person. But if you want Rhaegar to live and the truce is _your_ idea, I suppose –”

“You suppose right,” Jon agrees, “and my terms included _giving you back your sister_ , but Rhaegar refused and he couldn’t hear otherwise.”

“I see,” Stark says, pain dripping from every word he pronounces. “And I see that you want the same things _I_ do, don’t you?”

“I want the same things _we_ all do and for all the love I have for Rhaegar and for how much he’s the dearest friend I’ve had, if he does _this_ , he dies, and he ends up not preventing the very thing he’s been working so hard to avoid.”

Stark nods. “All right. I – I don’t want to believe this, but it’s too – I cannot imagine how anyone would come up with this and giving these many details, and _you are_ Jon Connington, it’s just plain obvious. So, you said you could help me and I could help you back.”

Jon thinks he _could_ kiss the man even if he’s not really the kind of man he finds easy on the eyes. But he doubts it would be appreciated now, so he just moves closer and nods. “We can. I – I thought about it. Obviously, the point where Lord Baratheon and Rhaegar won’t meet is… your sister. And you have the right of it, as much as I wish I could say otherwise.”

“Thank you,” Stark says, sounding pained. Of course, he would.

“I – I thought about it. And I _think_ I might have found a viable solution, but you should try to convince Robert to agree to it while – while I try to do the same on our side.”

“What would that be?”

“To put the matter aside for the moment and let _her_ decide what she wants. Your – your sister sounds like a young woman with a very strong will –”

“On _that_ , you are absolutely right,” Stark says, and now he sounds pained _and_ fond at the same time.

“So she most probably will know what she wants best. You need to convince Robert to work with Rhaegar for now and then when she’s back with you, she will decide what to do and you all should agree to respect her decision now. That would at least put the matter aside for the moment and solve most of our current problems. What do you say?”

“I say I would wholeheartedly agree with it,” Stark replies immediately. “Gods, I _would_. And actually – if it was the case, I might get her myself, if –”

“She’s at the Tower of Joy,” Jon immediately tells him. Maybe he _shouldn’t_ have, but – but if it goes awry Stark has the right to know, and if he doesn’t have to find out on his own maybe he can get there in time. “I – given that she died in childbirth the first time around, I took the liberty of sending a maester along with the Kingsguard who went to alert Rhaegar that he should come back here. But still, she would probably be better off with _you_ there.”

“Gods – that’s – that’s where Arthur Dayne is right now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jon confirms.

“But – why did you tell me? You didn’t have to –”

“Lord Stark, she’s your _sister_. And – as much as it pains to say it, Rhaegar is completely in the wrong in this. You deserved to know. And – I know that you sacrificed a _lot_ to keep that child hidden back in _my_ time, it’s in everyone’s best interest that you would know.”

Stark moves closer, and unless the moonlight is lying, Jon thinks that his eyes are wet.

“My lord,” he whispers, “I – I don’t know how to thank you. If –”

“Lord Stark, if there is _one_ thing you could do to _thank me_ , is making sure Lord Baratheon accepts our terms. If I fail here, it doesn’t matter what happens in King’s Landing, and – I failed at what I was set to accomplish twice, in my time. I don’t want the third to be the one that dooms us all.”

“It’s in my best interest, too,” Stark agrees. “Robert will agree to it.”

“Will he? Because –”

“I _grant_ you, he _will_. I know him. If he doesn’t want to see reason, I’ll make him. You have my word if I have yours that Rhaegar will do the same.”

“Well, I’ll have to make _my own self_ do it, but – I will make _them_ listen, whatever it takes.”

“Then we are in agreement,” Stark says, holding out his hand.

Jon shakes it – he has a firm grip, but he also has the eyes of a man who’s _absolutely_ relieved he’s had this conversation, and then Jon is hit all over again by how _young_ he is – barely older than Brienne, isn’t he?

 _Gods_ , he thinks, _we were all children playing at war, weren’t we?_

“We are,” he says. “Please, just – just don’t speak of this to _anyone_. In theory, I shouldn’t have told you the truth, so – no one can know. You understand, don’t you?”

“I do,” Stark replies. “But I think – from what you told me, I think it’s obvious that I _can_ keep a secret, can’t I?”

“That you can, my lord,” Jon agrees. “I don’t know if you’ll ever see _me_ again, but if we don’t have the chance to, thank you. I think you might have just singlehandedly saved all of our lives.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Jon shrugs. “I have no idea what happens to me after I do my part. But that’s not the point.”

That said –

“One more thing though,” he says. “I told you, Aerys had to die. _Has_ to die. And – Lannister is supposed to kill him.”

He remembers that Brienne at some point told him that Lannister resented Stark for not having even asked him _why_ he killes his king. Maybe – maybe he can fix this, somehow, and even if he doesn’t, since it seems like he has an ally, he should make sure he has everything covered, _just in case._

“Didn’t you say Aerys has wildfire under the city?”

“Yes,” Jon says. “We – have taken precautions to make sure that no one involved in whatever is happening in King’s Landing is held responsible, but just in case – remember that he won’t do it out of dishonor.”

“I – I will,” Stark nods. “Thank you again, my lord.”

“No, thank _you_. Let’s hope that tomorrow brings us better negotiations.”

Stark’s lips quirk upwards in a small but sharp grin. “Oh, they _will_. I will make sure of it right now, if I may take my leave.”

“Of course you may. I – I hope we see each other again. If not, I wish you all the best.”

“Likewise. I – I suppose that if I asked you a few things, it would be too much, wouldn’t it?”

Jon shakes his head. “My lord, I – I am loath to saying any more. I – I wouldn’t want to accidentally change more of the future than I am supposed to. I cannot tell you if your sister might live _now_ , though.”

“I – you are right. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine. Anyone would. Thank you again and – may we meet again, I suppose.”

“May we, indeed,” Stark says, nodding, and then he bows quickly before turning and walking back to his camp –

And Jon thinks, _fuck it_.

“Lord Stark!”

He stops, turns back to him.

“Yes?”

“I was exiled the first time around, so I do not know about _you_ specifically. But from what your son – your sister’s son – had to say, you – you won’t regret your life choices. The one you took before this moment, of course. That’s as much as I can tell you, but – it’s worth it. I think.”

He thinks he sees a tear falling over Stark’s cheek, but he wipes it away at once.

“Thank you,” he says, and then he disappears towards his camp.

 _Good_.

Now _he_ has his own part to do, _again_.

\--

“I met Ned Stark in the woods,” he says, walking up to his younger self _again_ in the same situation as before.

They need to stop meeting like this – hopefully it would be the last.

“What – _Stark_? It’s the dead of the night, what –”

“He was in the woods, I was taking a walk, I ran into him and good thing we both were alone. Now _listen_ to me. He was obviously distressed and I realized that he might be of help.”

“ _What_ –”

“I told him.”

“What the – have you lost your wits? It’s already bad enough that you told that Varys, but –”

“Listen to me, damn it. I _had_ to, because if anyone could convince Robert to relent on _anything_ it’s _him_ and I cannot leave this to chance. Now listen to me _carefully_. I found a midway.”

“A midway.”

“They agree to work together until they fetch Lyanna Stark and _she_ decides what she wants.”

“ _What_ –”

“Listen, it’s the only way. Rhaegar thinks that the baby is more important than _her_ , and don’t lie to me about it, because I _heard_ you, but he liked her enough to marry her, so I suppose he also wouldn’t want to have her marry _someone else_ after carrying his child. Robert thinks that since she was his betrothed she _has_ to marry him. Given that _she_ is the person in question, maybe it should be up to her. And it’s a reasonable enough solution that no one could refuse it. Stark was enthusiastic of this plan and he swore on all the old gods that Robert _would_ accept such an agreement tomorrow. If I could walk in and tell Rhaegar myself I _would_ , but I _cannot_ , so you’re going to wake him up, inform him that you come up with this amazing plan that might solve all of our problems and _convince him_ to accept. I don’t care how you do it but he _has_ to relent. Or he’s dead, and since avoiding it is the last thing I can do for him, you’d better make sure I don’t fail this time. Or we _both_ do.”

“Wait, _the last thing_? What do you mean?”

Jon laughs. It’s the bitterest laugh that’s ever left his mouth. “I mean that as far as Bran Stark was concerned, the moment I was done with my mission I should have gone back to the place where I arrived and if he still could, he’d bring me back to _this_ timeline, except _in your body._ ”

“ _What_ –”

“Except that I don’t know if I can do _that_ – stealing your life doesn’t seem too ethical to me right now – but other than that, I arrived in King’s Landing. Whatever happens here, the raven warning Brienne and the others will get there before a month. And Aerys will be dead long before I arrive in King’s Landing, so I _cannot_ get a passage back to the future, I suppose. And I certainly cannot go around and say I’m _you_.”

“So what –”

“I have no bloody clue, but I’d like to see him alive and thriving before anything else happens. Understood?”

For a moment, they just stare at each other.

Then his counterpart reaches out and squeezes Jon’s arm, once.

“I will. I – I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

“It’s all right. As long as he lives and you don’t do anything as stupid as the things _I_ did, it will be worth it. Now go.”

He nods, and goes, and Jon kind of wants to sit down on the ground and fall asleep right here and now, but instead he follows his counterpart to Rhaegar’s tent and ponders, _should I hear it_?

Thankfully, it’s on the edge of the camp.

He hides someplace dark where he can hear, though not see – this one has no holes.

Rhaegar refuses at first, but miraculously _he_ doesn’t back down, and after a bit, Rhaegar finally admits, _you have the right of it, Jon_ , and agrees on supporting that proposal tomorrow, even if he will go to battle ready for it if Robert still wants to fight him to the loser’s death. At least he sounds convinced of it, but Jon can’t help thinking of that first conversation, the one about Arthur’s orders.

 _How could he think something so horrible?_ , he thinks. _Mostly, why, when there was no need and Ned Stark would have sheltered that child without batting an eyelid?_

 _Rhaegar, has this prophecy changed you this much?_ , he can’t help thinking. Too bad, too bad that the answer seems to be _yes_ all around.

He finds himself a place to sit not far from the tent – there was a small group of soldiers in between which there’s an empty bedroll. He lies down on it, even if he cannot sleep and he doubts he will until the morrow and it’s too cold for his tastes, and he thinks, _I hope Brienne is faring better than this._

\--

He does sleep, even if little and badly.

At dawn, he’s wide awake and stands up, fixing his clothing, when Rhaegar leaves the tent.

For a moment Jon just _stares_ at him, at how his silver hair is glimmering with warm golden hues of yellow and soft orange in the rising morning sun, and at how his skin is a healthy shade of pink in his light, and at how breathtakingly beautiful he is. _If anything, I’ll have a good memory of him_ , he thinks as he tries to not make too much noise, but then Rhaegar turns and his eyes meet Jon’s and he immediately bows, moving his head downwards.

“Your Grace,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Rhaegar replies, sounding all too weary. “I might not be _that,_ after today.”

Jon looks up at him again, taking a chance maybe he shouldn’t – he doesn’t know if he wants Rhaegar to recognize him or not, but a part of him is thinking _how do I wish for it_ , and so he risks it and does. Their eyes meet again.

“I very much hope so,” Jon says. “I – I have a good feeling about today’s outcome.”

“At least someone has. Well, I should go get ready. Let us all hope. And thank you for the information you shared with us, Ser – sorry, how did you say your name was? I am afraid I didn’t catch it.”

“Oh – Roland,” Jon says, catching himself at the last moment.

“Well, thank you very much, Ser Roland. May we have a fruitful day ahead,” Rhaegar says, smiling slightly, and then he ducks back into the tent.

Jon stands there for a moment, then two, then two, then he breathes in once, twice, and then he grabs his cloak, putting it around his shoulders. Most people are asleep and the woods are nearby.

He finds a large tree that provides a good shade. He sits down on the ground.

And then he lets himself break down in tears that he hasn’t dared shedding since he set foot in King’s Landing again, and he doesn’t hear _at all_ the part of himself who’s telling him that he _shouldn’t_ and that crying is not even for women but for little girls who know no better, and on one side he _knows_ it was a ridiculous hope and that it’s better like this, but he had hoped –

 _He had hoped_ –

He cries harder into his black and red cloak, hoping it muffles the quiet sounds he wishes would _not_ escape his mouth, and just lets himself do it.

He can deal with the rest later.

\--

He’s spent but tense as Rhaegar and Robert talk again. They’re both fully armored, but when Ned Stark asks for a word and his younger self does as well and they both propose to let Lyanna Stark be the judge of their own situation in a way that would almost make Jon impressed – after all, they both knew the _other_ knew, but they certainly haven’t rehearsed it – if only he wasn’t feeling like he could just fucking walk away and die in a ditch right now that his work is done.

Well, _almost_.

When both of them agree on it and shake hands on it, he slips away from the rest of the crowd before knees can be bent and so on – he has to finish his damned work here.

He runs to the tent where the ravens are kept and the moment the soldier manning it is called away because all the army has to be present when the rebels bend the knee and the birds won’t run away, he slips inside it and thanks all the old gods that when he was young his maester insisted for him to learn how to care for the birds and mostly, how to use them to send the thrice-damned messages. He takes out of his pocket the message he has carried along for a month and re-reads it.

 

_Negotiations have failed. Prince Rhaegar is dead, Robert Baratheon slew him and he’s marching towards King’s Landing. Please be ready for it._

 

He hasn’t signed it and he has purposefully written it very quickly, to make it look as if it was sent in a haste. He nods, folds it up again and attaches it to the closest raven – all of them are trained to fly to King’s Landing for sure, so whichever will be good. He gently brings it out of its cage, and then lets it free.

It flies in the right direction.

 _My part is done_ , he thinks, and he wishes he could feel only joy as he does.

But he’s not.

He’s feeling – nothing. Nothing, really.

\--

He doesn’t even bother with personal effects – he had nothing of import with him, and he has enough money to survive for a bit, should he choose to. He waits until everyone is back – the soldiers are overjoyed and everyone is discussing excitedly of going back home soon, and at least everything seems to have ended well _for them_.

For _them._

 _Brienne_ , he thinks, _I really hope you can handle things where you are. I really hope you do. And that you have better luck with the man you love than I had_.

Still, he should talk to _himself_ one last time, and so he slips inside _his_ tent when no one’s looking.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“So you were _here_.”

“I needed to warn King’s Landing that _Rhaegar is dead_ ,” Jon shrugs.

“Right. Your ruse to make sure Lannister lives?”

“Yes,” Jon says. “ _Please_ don’t forget it.”

“I hadn’t,” _he_ replies. “And I won’t. You were right, after all.”

He laughs as he stands up. “I come from the future, don’t I? Anyway. Try to give him good counsel and don’t let him always have his way, though I suppose that if he’s assured that the prophecy is fulfilled, he might go back to being more reasonable.”

“He’s just tired,” his younger self replies defensively, and of course he does, but Jon will just – let it go for now. It would be cruel to tell him of what happened this morning, and anyway, Rhaegar was never _his_ to have and maybe it will be the same for the man in front of him, but if either of them should have a chance at a life at his side, it’s not _Jon_.

That ship sailed a long time ago, and he just wishes he had understood it first even if he _still_ would have done all of this and he wouldn’t have regretted it.

Still, he’d have never thought that _saving his prince_ for good would have turned to be _this_.

“I’m sure he is. Anyway – I’m leaving.”

“What?”

“I’m _leaving_. I cannot certainly take your place and I cannot be around court lest someone notices _we’re the same person_ , and don’t you worry, I won’t – I won’t take your place. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Then – then what are you going to do?” He looks up into his own younger, worried eyes.

He smiles, as much as he can, and puts his remaining hand on the arm he used to have, a long time ago.

“I guess I will find out just living, won’t I? Just, be there for him.”

“Of course I will, there’s nothing else I should want.”

“Don’t I know it,” he mutters to himself. “Good,” he says to _his other_ self with a clear voice. “Then I wish you the best luck. After today, I doubt Tywin Lannister can even aspire to be Hand of the King again, and that’s good news for all of us.”

“Fair enough. Then – good luck. Are you sure, though? If you’re supposed to be a commoner, I’m sure I could find you a keep or something –”

“No,” he refuses. “No, I – I don’t think I want anything belonging to the crown. It would be risking too much. But thank you nonetheless.”

“As you wish. If you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.”

“I will, but I don’t think it’ll be the case.”

He nods, his younger self nods back and then it’s _too much_.

He can’t have this conversation anymore and he thinks he’s earned the right to just back out of it, and so he slips out of the tent and of the camp and then he’s walking fast and faster and _faster_ from it until he can’t see it in the distance anymore and he’s short of breath and it’s a _month_ on horse to King’s Landing which means it’ll take more if he just walks there.

 _Maybe I should go somewhere else_ , he thinks, but –

But _where_ would he even go?

He shakes his head, trying to get his bearings, and then he decides that he really doesn’t have any better option.

Still.

The road is open in front of him, he has nothing to go back to, nothing to go _towards_ , at this point one place is worth the other.

And that is when he hears _that_ voice.

 

_Lord Connington, if you want to go back, you have to hurry. You have six days._

 

That was –

That was Bran Stark.

He _knows_ it was Bran Stark.

And he also knows there is no bloody way he can be in King’s Landing in _four days_. Just a raven might get there _that_ fast.

But then again, he would feel like an usurper if he ran just to wake up in his other self’s body seventeen years from now, not after the conversation they just had, and not when he knows he could never look at Rhaegar the same way after this morning

( _after he didn’t know me, even if I’d have known him anywhere_ )

nor after what he heard about Lyanna Stark and the carelessness with which he treated his own marriage – he wouldn’t have noticed years ago, and he’s not surprised that his own younger self had not, but –

But he can’t. Not now. Not after what he had to go through, not after seeing both Jon and Aegon _die_ , not after realizing that the man he loved had _changed_ that much and not for the better.

“No,” he says, quietly but firmly. “I’m not coming back.”

 

_Are you sure?_

 

“Yes,” he says, even if he’s not sure of _anything_. “Just worry about Brienne. I’m fine like this.”

 

_If that’s what you wish. Goodbye, Lord Connington. You have done your part and you have done it well._

 

“If only it hadn’t cost me so,” Jon says quietly, but he never gets an answer for it.

He grabs a coin out of his pouch and flips it.

_Heads I’m going back to King’s Landing, tails I’m going the other way._

When he looks at what side he picked, Aerys’s face is staring up at him.

_All right. King’s Landing it is._

He puts the coin back where it came from.

 _Brienne_ , he thinks, _I did my part. I just hope you’re not finding it as hard to do yours_.

He takes a deep breath as he walks on, and if his face turns wet all over again not long later, he doesn’t even bother to dry away however many tears he still has to shed. At some point they’ll end, he thinks, and meanwhile he just feels thankful that the sun is high in the sky and warm on his skin. After all, he hadn’t had the chance to enjoy it for a long while, and he might do just that as he takes it slow.

 

 

After all, he has all the time in the world _now_ , doesn’t he?

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I'M SORRY.
> 
> (see you with MORE PLOT next time. /o\ I swear I'm not leaving him here though I SWEAR ;_;)


	7. Brienne (and Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Brienne's quest comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... so, for everyone who had been wanting to murder me for what happened at the end of chapter five: HERE YOU GO, HAVE THE RESOLUTION (and hopefully the answer to half of what you had been wondering since chapter one /o/ the other half shall be answered next time /o/). That said: I have an exam on Monday so this is hopefully getting wrapped up for real next week with the epilogue that's most probably going to be longer than the last two chapters put together, but anyway, HAVE FUN. Hopefully you won't want to murder me at the first ending and the second one will tide you over until the grand finale.  <3 anyway, here you go. ENJOY THE PLOT.
> 
> (ps: I'm using this chapter for a fic challenge game going on in the italian fandom rn where I'm in a team and you have to write stuff based on different prompts every week. this one is being used for _Ducharme's axiom: If you view your problem closely enough you will recognize yourself as part of the problem._ there, I just needed to specify it so the mods won't kill me. Now you can go ahead and I can saunter back downwards.)

By the time the sun has set Brienne decides that she had thought that the Red Keep under Aerys Targaryen could have been one of the Seven Hells if it existed on earth _before_ , she was wrong. _Now_ it is. She can barely remember the details of what she’s done for the previous ten hours or so, but it included terrorizing people off the streets, helping setting up the defenses and locking the gates, witnessing helplessly another round of _possible_ spies being thrown into the dungeons –

and she _has_ seen Aerys talk to some of those pyromancers.

At least Jaime was with the princess, _she thinks_.

Now, though –

Now she has to time things, and to time them well. She can’t act before she’s sure Aerys has given the pyromancers their orders, and she can’t act _too late_ because if the army shows up it will be obvious that Rhaegar is alive and well.

Most likely, but if he was _really_ dead she thinks they would have gotten a wholly different kind of raven. A signed one, for starters.

Then there’s the part where she should orchestrate things so that Jaime is in the right place at the right time to –

To –

Gods, she wants to throw up just at the thought. But –

Aerys has to die. And Jaime has to do it. Or they’re all dead.

She really hopes Jon had it better than her in his part of this thrice-darned quest.

She goes through the motions of another evening of sticking to Aerys’s side and trying to not stare at his hands as skin gets cut on the throne’s blades and by the time some golden cloak comes to tell her that she has six hours to sleep and then she should be back here, she feels like sleeping for a year. She nods, bows courteously and gets the hell out of the room, and she’s entirely set on heading straight to bed.

But then she decides to take a moment for herself and goes to the godswood.

The heart tree is silent as she walks up to it, of course. She puts a hand against its bark, not even knowing _why_ she’s doing it, and then –

Then Varys suddenly shows up beside her.

“It seems,” he whispers, “like Lord Jon’s plan is finally coming to a close?”

“It seems like it,” she agrees. “I probably shouldn’t ask, but has any _bird_ told you about wildfire placed right under the city?”

Varys clears his throat. “I should ask you to please refrain from talking about such things in the open.”

“ _When_ I come from, everyone knows.”

“Not here,” Varys says. “Anyhow, not yet. Would you like a warning when that happens?”

“ _Please_ ,” she says.

“I see,” Varys nods, and Brienne doesn’t like it _at all_. “You need a diversion, don’t you?”

“My lord –”

“Please, I can put two and two together, my lady. You obviously don’t wish to whisper in your man’s ear when it comes to _his_ duty –”

“He’s _not_ –”

“I would argue that he is, my lady, but that’s neither here nor there. You don’t wish to do it, because that would be hardly honorable and you don’t want to use him as some kind of pawn, so the wildfire would be a perfect chance to put it as a justifiable action, isn’t it?”

“It’s not – it’s _what happened the first time around_ and I’m sure Lord Jon told you.”

“He might have,” Varys says. “He did tell me a lot. Anyhow, I just wanted to be sure of a few things.”

“Of _what_?”

“That’s not your concern. Now listen to me well, Lady Brienne. I have a question, and I need you to ponder that answer well. You need a diversion. A _huge_ diversion, I suppose. I might be able to give you one in a couple of days.”

“In a couple –”

“Indeed. At most, but maybe even before then. It’s either that or waiting however long it takes Aerys to get paranoid enough to set fire to this lovely city, and who knows how long can it be. Should I do it?”

Brienne is about to say _yes_ , do it, whatever it is – the sooner this mess is over, the better, but then she remembers what Bran Stark told her and Jon before they left.

In order to leave, they need to go back to _that same place in which they arrived_.

The army is at the _Stoney Sept_.

Jon will never make it if she tells Varys to just do whatever it is that he’s considering, and – can she just leave him _here_? She’s about to tell Varys no and that she’ll just hope things happen the way they should, but then the tree’s bark against her hand suddenly _burns_.

 

 _You can say yes,_ she hears, and wait, that sounds like –

_Bran?_

“But Jon –” She whispers.

 

 _He’s not coming back. He made his choice. Do as you think best_.

 

Then the tree is cold again, and she wants to throw up.

 _He’s not coming back_.

She swallows. Maybe he found a place in Rhaegar’s service? Maybe Rhaegar recognized him and realized _what_ he has given up until now just for him? She hopes it’s the case – Jon certainly deserved recognition for that, at least, and if he gets to spend another life with the man he loves, who is she to begrudge that?

“My lady?” Varys asks again.

“I suppose you won’t tell me _what_ is your ruse, is it?”

Varys shakes his head. “If it makes you feel better, it’s nothing that hasn’t happened… the first time already.”

She’s so _tired_ of riddles, she realizes, but it’s obvious he won’t tell her more.

All right.

 _All right_.

“Do it,” she says. “I need this over with. For best or worse.”

“Very well. _Be ready_ , Lady Brienne.”

And then Varys has disappeared in the shadows before she can ask him anything further.

Damn it.

 _Damn it_.

She shakes her head and leaves, going back to her room, and then she finally lets herself consider what Bran told her.

Jon is staying.

She hadn’t realized it _was_ something she could do. For a moment, she considers it. She could stay, and she could – she could stand up for Jaime when it’s time to do it. She could – she could make sure he doesn’t end up doing something horribly stupid, she could make sure no one thinks him dishonorable –

For a moment, she thinks, _I could do it. I could stay._

Except –

 _Except that I can’t_ , she realizes with a heavy heart, stopping just as she walks through the White Tower’s door.

Jon _might_ manage that ruse, because the story he went with cannot be verified – he said he’s a hedge knight with a bastard name, who is even going to? – and if Rhaegar and his other self know the truth, they’ll find a way to shield him from any such thing. Also, he has no relatives that might recognize him or that he would _need_ to face.

Meanwhile, she told them a _specific_ story. She told them she was _Ser Duncan’s niece_ , and it wouldn’t take much to find out that if Duncan ever had a niece, her name is _Brienne of Tarth_ , not Rohanne from nowhere. She said she had a family, she gave them enough details that will not hold up the moment someone checks, and she should lie to Jaime _all her life_ if she ever managed to avoid that, and when her younger self grows up into someone with _exactly_ her facial features and shows up at court, what would happen?

She could stay.

But it would be a huge risk, and she doesn’t know if she can live out her entire life lying to Jaime _after_ – after he kills Aerys all over again, and because _she_ has done nothing to stop it.

She wishes she _could_ do it.

But she had to lie to him once, when she brought him to Lady Stoneheart, and all along she felt like she would rather pierce her own heart with Oathkeeper rather than doing it, and then it was not a choice in between killing her former liege lady or _him_ , and –

She can’t.

 _She just can’t_.

She shakes her head, heading for her room. She needs sleep. She needs _a lot_ of sleep, and she knows she won’t get much.

She opens the door, figuring the room will be dark –

But the moment she does, she realizes that there are candles lighted.

_What –_

Then she looks at her bed, and she wishes the ground would crack open and swallow her whole, because Jaime’s sitting on her bed, and there’s Oathkeeper lying over his legs.

\--

“Rohanne,” he says, and at least he doesn’t sound angry, merely – merely _very_ surprised. “Do I want to know why there’s a _Valyrian steel_ sword hidden under your bedding?”

She swallows.

“I don’t know if you do,” she says, “but – how –”

He shrugs. “I – I wanted to talk to you,” he says, standing up and putting the sword back on the bed, with a certain reverence. “You weren’t here, so I sat down on that bed, and – I hadn’t noticed before, I guess because I’ve never been in it with a clear head, but then I realized there was something weird about that mattress and – I guess I shouldn’t have checked, but –”

“No,” she says, “I would have done the same.”

Damn.

 _Damn_.

“So,” he says, “what is this about? Because I hadn’t known Ser Duncan the Tall was hiding Valyrian steel swords anywhere.”

“He wasn’t,” she says, defensively.

 _Think, damn it_ , she tells herself. _You need to take a decision, and quick._

She could lie.

Or, she could tell him the truth.

Thing is – she has lied to him enough up until now, and _before_ , too, and he’s about the one person she doesn’t want to lie to. It’s tore her up inside too many times already.

Still, if she tells him the truth, what will he think? That she’s just used him all along, when – when she’s tried to do _anything but_?

Still –

Still –

This happened once already. She couldn’t look at him in the face after Lady Stoneheart, even if she killed her to save his life when it came down to taking that decision. She couldn’t even bear to do it, because she thought she’d only see hate in his eyes, and she’d deserve it, because what kind of knight would do such a thing?

And instead –

 

 _You know,_ he had said, _they did tell me you only looked for me to save your friends or otherwise you’d have been hanging, too_.

 _What –_ , she had started.

 _I don’t think anyone’s ever actively decided to die for me, you know._  

_But I lied to you._

_And don’t you think that out of anyone,_ I _would understand why you’d do it? I lied about Aerys for half of my life for – I don’t even know what anymore, and I lied about me and Cersei for all of my life, and look where it brought me. And you did it to save people and then you certainly didn’t let them hang me. You need to learn that not all of us have_ your _standards, wench. Some of us do understand the point of telling lies for the greater good sometimes_.

 

She hadn’t trusted him from the beginning, then.

Maybe she can trust him _now_ , and if he hates her for it, so be it. She’d deserve it.

“It’s about a lot of things,” she settles on. “And it’s a long story. One that you might not even believe. But I will tell you, if you ask again.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to know?”

“Now that’ll be telling, wouldn’t it?”

He cracks half a smile, raising up both hands. “Well, never let anyone say I was scared of _one story_. Do tell, lady Rohanne.”

_Gods, he shouldn’t know. Too many people are in the know about this. It can’t lead to anything good._

Still.

Still, she’s _done_.

“Very well. Look at that sword,” she says. “I mean, there’s something about it you should have noticed, other than its steel.”

Jaime looks down at it again – at the beginning it seems like he’s not quite getting it, but then –

“Wait. The _hilt_?”

“Yes,” she says, dropping on the mattress, next to him but not close enough that their sides would touch.

“… It’s a _Lannister_ hilt,” Jaime says. “But – unless someone kept it from me, and I doubt it, there’s no such thing in the family heirlooms.”

“There’s not. _Yet_ ,” Brienne says. “There will be, though. Seventeen years from now.”

“ _Seventeen years_ –”

“ _That_ was why I said you might not even believe it. To answer the burning questions I think you might have after such a statement… yes, I come from the future. _No_ , my name is not Rohanne, it’s Brienne. And I’m not a commoner – my father is Lord Selwyn Tarth.” And doesn’t it feel _liberating_ to say it. “But yes, my – great-grandfather is still Duncan the Tall.” She’s sure enough of it that she might as well point it out. “And yes, that sword technically came into your family’s possession, but I have it because _you_ gave it to me.”

“… _I_ gave it to you?” At least he sounds completely baffled rather than angry, and she can hear the question, _why would I give anyone Valyrian steel if I could have it for myself_?

If only he knew.

“ _Yes_ , and a couple of years later most of the people in Westeros died, and I’m here because I’m trying to prevent it.”

“I think,” Jaime says after a long pause, “that I need you to go over all of this _in detail_ , Roh – no, did you say Brienne? Starting with _how_ would anyone travel back in time.”’

“Yes. And – fair enough. Seventeen years from now – has anyone ever told you about the Long Night?”

“The Long – what, that story about the Night King and the Others coming back to Westeros and killing us all lest the… prince that was promised or _something_ stops them? Well, _yes_ , I guess my mother read it to both Cersei and I when we were children and before – never mind. But it’s a _story_.”

“It’s not,” Brienne says. “Or at least, not where I come from. Where I come from, most of Westeros is gone. And let me ask you something, have you ever wondered _why_ is Rhaegar going to such lengths to assure himself that he will sire _three_ children, or why he would take up a sword well past the age anyone from his background would?”

Jaime stares at her for a moment, but then she can see that he’s reluctantly seeing her point. “Gods, wait, Arthur _did_ talk a few times about Rhaegar’s obsession with… some prophecy about three heads of a dragon. And the princess said the same. Wait, are you telling me –”

“Rhagear Targaryen has most likely stumbled into some book that was very clear about it, and he realized that _he_ must birth the three heads of the dragon. But Princess Elia couldn’t give him _three_ , that’s what I’m telling you. Anyhow, where he comes from, he dies at the Trident fighting Robert, and – his father dies here, too, and Robert becomes king. No one knows. And it dooms us all because we’re not prepared when it does. Not even – not even the _heads_ , even if it pains me to call them such.”

“You mean, Rhaegar’s children?”

She shakes her head. “Two of them. Rhaenys dies during the war, Aegon is smuggled out and he grows up with Lord Connington, who had been exiled in the meantime, and the third – is Lyanna’s child. Ned Stark raises him, but doesn’t tell him the truth before his death. And the truth comes out too late.”

“Wait, who’s the third head of the dragon then, if Rhaenys dies?” Gods, he sounds pained at the prospect of seeing that sweet girl dying, and at least – at least he’s believing her, for now?

“Rhaella’s last child,” Brienne says. “She’s – she’s pregnant right now, isn’t she?”

“Yes, but –”

“She gives birth to a girl in Dragonstone. _She_ was the one hatching the dragons, but – it’s too little and too late. And they all died – the dragons, _and_ the heads, and all of us who survived them didn’t for too long. Because _no one knew_ , and everyone was too busy fighting over the damned Iron Throne after Robert died and – and Lord Stark’s death started a civil war.”

“Right, and never mind the pressing question I have, _how_ are you here if you come from – whenever it is you say you come from?”

“Speaking of legends, have you ever heard of the three-eyed crow?”

“… Some other northern legend? I don’t know, I think Tyrion read something about this crow once when I went back to visit, but I don’t really remember. Is that some greenseer?”

“The most powerful. And he can – travel back in time. Or, _send other people_ back in time, even if I think he shouldn’t.”

“So – he sent _you_?”

“Me and Lord Jon. From _my_ time.”

For a moment, Jaime just _stares_ at her as if she’s gone insane, but then –

“Wait a fucking moment. Are you telling me that I wasn’t going insane when I thought I knew _Ser Roland_ from somewhere but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it and I decided he did look suspiciously like Jon Connington but he _couldn’t be_?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” she says, relieved. “And _yes_ , it’s him. We – have an agreement with the – the present Lord Jon, if I’m explaining myself.”

“Right. Right, that would make sense, and – so you should… what? _Change the past_?”

“ _He_ should. I – I shouldn’t. But I’m doing it, I think.”

“… Wait, I don’t think I’m following you.”

“That’s because you don’t know the terms. And I think they might answer a few of your other burning questions. The terms were that we should make sure Rhaegar _and_ his children lived. Which is why Jon is at the Stoney Sept.”

“But Rhaegar is _dead_.”

“No he’s not,” Brienne says. “That was a ruse to – to protect _you_.”

“… To protect _me_?”

Now he looks like he can’t even begin to make sense of this entire mess.

But of course he can’t, since she’s been avoiding the worst of this conversation and he will never understand if she doesn’t tell him straight.

“Listen, this – this has to do with _why_ you give me that sword in the future. I – you won’t like what I’m about to say, and if you hate me for it after I’m done, I couldn’t blame you. Just – let me tell you the entire story first.”

“I’ve been listening until now, haven’t I?”

 _And I’m still in awe you have_.

“There were – two conditions, in those terms. One was that Rhaegar should live. The other, that Aerys should die in the same way he had in the – in the world I come from. That is, so that Rhaegar takes his place and when the Long Night comes, he’s ready.” Or at least, that’s what she supposed the entire point was. “In – in _our_ world, Aerys dies because _you_ kill him.”

Jaime _quite literally blanches_ at that, and Brienne doesn’t know what possesses her to reach forward and grab his hand – possibly the lack of self-preservation – but _never mind that_. He’s not telling her not to and he doesn’t shrug it away, and so she holds on to it. For _her_ own sake, too.

“In my world, Rhaegar dies and he – he completely loses it. And he plants wildfire under King’s Landing to blow it up along with _himself_ because he’s just not letting the rebels have their say, if you get my meaning. This, while your lord father is assaulting the city, having decided which side is he on, while the rebels march on it, too.”

“As in, the winning side?” Jaime asks, his voice trembling.

“Yes,” she says. “Gregor Clegane kills – kills Princess Elia and her daughter during the sack. Supposedly Aegon, as well, but he was smuggled out before it could happen.”

“And _where the hell am I_ if –”

“You can’t protect them because you are in the throne room with the king, you hear him ordering a pyromancer to burn down the entire city and you kill him so that it cannot happen at the same time of their death. And you save the entire city, but no one gives you credit for it also because you don’t tell anyone. For – good reasons, I guess, but that’s not the point. The point is that Aerys _has_ to die and it seems like it must happen that way, so Lord Jon was in charge of changing how things went at the Stoney Sept, and _I_ should have been here to make sure Aerys met the same end as before.” She grasps tighter at his hand. “But while in our world Robert pardoned you because after all you paid him a favor, in _this_ world, if Rhaegar lived, it would be harder to do it, which is why we came up with the fake letter.”

“You – you and Lord Jon?”

“The point was, if everyone thinks Rhaegar’s dead, Aerys _also_ would make use of those pyromancers, and no one could fault you for saving the city while you thought the rebels had won. And believe me, I – at this point I’m trying to think of any possible way to make sure you don’t have to do it.”

“But – but _why_?” He asks, and he sounds completely baffled rather than betrayed as she thought he would be, and he still hasn’t moved his hand away and gods, _gods_ , she needs to finish this.

She doesn’t want to tell him, _because it ruins you_.

“Because it’s not _fair_ to you and – I guess that’s where the sword comes into play. Jaime, we – we already knew each other, in the world I come from.”

“We did,” he says. “Well, _I_ gave you that, didn’t I? And where the hell it comes from anyway?”

“From Ned Stark’s,” she says. “He – he dies in King’s Landing. And your father has that sword melted in two different ones. One goes to you, one goes – to one of the children you have with your sister.”

“We – we have _children_?”

“Not that anyone knows. They’re Robert’s, as far as the realm is concerned. But – before you come into possession of that sword, we – gods. The Starks take you prisoner during a battle, _before_ Ned Stark dies. I am in service of Lady Catelyn. She sends you and I to King’s Landing so I can ransom you for her daughters, who are hostages there as far as she’s concerned.”

“Why, aren’t they?”

“No. Just one of them. But never mind that. We run into some bandits. They cut off your right hand.”

“They do _what_?” He asks, and now he looks like he _could_ throw up just at the mere thought of it.

If only he knew the details –

No. She’s going to spare him that. It’s the least she can do.

“They do,” she says, quietly. “And believe me, it doesn’t stop you from doing very heroic things, but that’s not the point. The point is that after we get out of that conundrum and we go back to King’s Landing, and throughout it you actually _did_ tell me about Aerys’s death, both daughters are gone and there’s – a difficult situation. I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you everything, but I already don’t know if I’m doing something very stupid by telling you _the future_ at all. And – you send me to find one of them. After giving me that sword.”

His face is still ashen – he looks terrible.

And he’s still holding her hand.

She just hopes it means he doesn’t want to kill her with his bare hands for not having told him all of this.

“And – after that?”

“Things happen,” she says, “and we find her together eventually, but – it’s a long story. What counts is that it’s all for naught because the Others invade the entire realm and – you died of pneumonia in the North. Just before I was sent back here.”

“I – that doesn’t sound like a very honorable death,” he says.

“No one had an _honorable death_ , where I come from.”

“You _do_ know that this is a very – very hard story to swallow and that I’m going to need you to prove that we _did_ know each other… previously, or whatever it is that you’re implying?”

That – that sounds fair, and the fact that he’s still here and listening to her is already a miracle in itself. Too bad that the only way she can think of is telling him _private_ matters that he only ever confessed to her when they were lovers already, but there’s no other way.

Gods, but she doesn’t want to do _this_ as much as she hadn’t wanted to tell him the whole harsh truth, but fine.

Fine.

“When you and your brother were kids during the last winter, you used to have snowball fights. You’d put some in your sister’s dress, too.”

“How –”

“You and your sister used to swap clothes when you were young sometimes, to see if you could fool other people into thinking you were – the other person. And when your mother caught you and her – I think kissing, but it could have been more – while she was pregnant with your brother, she made you sleep in opposite sides of the castle. You and her – laid together for the first time the day she convinced you to join the Kingsguard. If you wanted to ask _how_ I know – I do because _you_ told me. Some sixteen years from now.”

He stares at her with wide eyes, obviously trying to make sense of it and she wonders, _should I tell him –_

Well, at this point she’s just going to do it.

“Also, when you – when you knocked on my door and your hand was hurt.”

“What about that?” He asks, his voice barely audible.

“You call – what you did, you call it _going away inside_. And I know because you gave me that exact same advice once.”

“For – let me guess, you didn’t take it.”

“No,” she agrees. “No, I didn’t, and – you did something very dumb and brave after I refused to take it, but that’s not the point. Also, just after you had to watch Rickard and Brandon Stark die, you asked Ser Gerold how could you allow it and he said you had to guard the king and not judge him.”

“ _No one knows_ –”

“ _Now_ , they don’t. But you did tell me,” she says, and then looks up at him again, and he’s just _staring_ at her without saying nothing, and –

 _Curse me or call me a liar or leave or kiss me, though I know you never will_ here _, but don’t leave me hanging like this_ , she thinks, not breaking their eye contact otherwise he’s never going to believe her, and she doesn’t realize that she’s crying until she can feel salt on her lips, but –

“Gods,” he whispers, “you’re not lying.”

That wasn’t a question.

“ _That_ convinced you?” She almost sobs, reaching up with her fingertips to wipe at her eyes.

“That sealed it,” he says, “but you’re a really – I mean, now that I think about it, knowing _this_ , you’re a terrible liar. Because you _did_ always look troubled but I thought it was for the same reason as me. And for the rest – you really didn’t _lie_ about anything technically, did you?”

She shrugs. “I guess, but I hated every moment of it. Anyway, I – I understand if you’re angry, and –”

“I’m not,” he says, disentangling his hand from hers and moving it back to the sword lying in between the two of them. “Really, I’m – I’m not. I mean, it’s a lot to take in but I can’t even fault you for _not_ telling, who’d have believed you? I’m not even certain I _want_ to, but you couldn’t know what you’ve just told me in any other way. And – gods, I think I can understand why I’d tell you _that_ in the future, if – if it felt good to tell you more or less the same things _now_. That said – I _have_ to kill Aerys, don’t I?”

“Jaime, you don’t _have_ to do anything. I mean, if I hadn’t been here, you would have done it. It’s just – now I told you that you might, which I guess might change things or not, but –”

“You just said that if he doesn’t die the entire world is fucked,” he interrupts her. “I’d be pretty damned selfish if I _didn’t_ do it, right? Just – you said that –”

“Varys is – working on apparently making things easier. And we broke a deal with him so that he’d help Elia and Rhaenys get to safety rather than risk their lives. So, I think we have a day or two before it cannot be delayed anymore. But –”

He shakes his head, a sad laugh leaving his mouth. “R – _Brienne_ , did I ever tell you _why_ I wanted to join the Kingsguard back in the day, as well?”

“You might have,” she says.

“What did I say that I haven’t told you already?”

“That you wanted to – go on quests such as what you had done going against the Smiling Knight.”

“Well, it seems, from what you said, that if I get to do something heroic it’s going to be making sure the world is rid of bloody Aerys. I can live with it,” he says, and now he’s smiling slightly but it’s _obvious_ that he’s trying to make it sound like he doesn’t mind when instead _he minds_ , very much.

She wants to cry. Then she remembers she’s still doing it, and doesn’t even try to stop herself.

“Jaime, you – I don’t even know how much I should tell you at this point, but it’s far from the only heroic deed you pull through.”

“Even after I lose a hand?”

“Especially after,” she replies softly. “I – I don’t want to risk possibly saying more. But can you trust me if I tell you that Aerys is _not_ where your knightly honor ends?”

“I want to doubt it, but – hearing _you_ , one would be sure of it. Does – does the sword have a name, by the way?”

“Yes, ” she says, wiping at her eyes. “You named it, actually.”

“I did? And how?”

“Oathkeeper,” she says, not able to keep the fond tone from her face.

“… That’d be an honorable name for a honorable sword,” he agrees. “Well, good thing _you_ have it, I suppose.”

“There’s no reason why you _shouldn’t_ have it.”

“Honorable swords should be used for honorable deeds, my lady, and I think mine will suffice. And if where _you_ come from I didn’t have my sword hand, I doubt I could have used it. Seems to me like I didn’t make such a bad choice.”

“… Wait, _what_?”

“Did I give it to you to pull through when it comes to the aforementioned honorable deeds, Brienne? Because going back in time to make sure all of us survive for another couple of winters and having volunteered for _guarding Aerys_ just to spare me from it when it seems to me like you were entirely aware of it even before meeting his royal self seems fairly _honorable_ to me.”

“I – I could have told you from the beginning.”

“My lady, I don’t think you would have gained my trust any faster. Especially – given _when_ you did show up. No, you couldn’t have. And stop looking that devastated, I’m not holding it against you.”

Maybe she _should_ have expected it.

But she _hadn’t_.

To her own horror, she realizes she’s _openly_ weeping in relief and she brings both hands to her face, and never mind that she always hates touching the side of her face that’s still scarred and angry-red for it, because she just _can’t_ do otherwise, and then he tentatively puts a hand around her shoulder and –

She cries harder.

“Gods, did I say something wrong?” He asks a moment later.

“No,” she says, “I just – I didn’t think – never mind. You _did_ tell me once that sometimes people might hear _why_ you’d lie to them, but – I didn’t _want_ to. I’m sorry I ever did.”

“It’s _fine_. I told you I get it.”

“I _know_ , but – never mind me. Gods, I guess I should just tell you if you haven’t figured it out already, but I _already_ had to lie to you once and it was bad enough. I didn’t want to do it again.”

“Let me guess, _I_ was the infamous friend who told you to learn how to have fun?”

“You might’ve been,” she agrees quietly, wiping at her eyes one last time as she gets her wits together and looks back at him. He’s staring at her like he’s seeing – not a _completely new person_ , but like he’s seeing _something_ in her he hadn’t before and she doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Well,” he says, obviously trying to lighten up the situation. “I guess that whatever happens to me at least I don’t turn into a sour bastard.”

She _does_ laugh at that, unable to stop herself. “No,” she says, “that you don’t. Even if your humor is questionable most times, but I might have grown to like it.”

“Good to know that,” he says. “So – gods, now the reason I was here in the first place sounds downright ridiculous.”

“Why? What was it?”

“I wanted to know how you were planning to handle the current situation.”

They stare at each other and then – she doesn’t know how they both end up laughing hysterically at the _damned same time_ , but they _do_ , and she doesn’t stop her hand when it finds his elbow, and she thinks, _gods if only I was brave enough to lean forward_ , but –

No.

No, that would be beyond _wrong_ , especially now.

“Right,” she admits, “maybe, but – if you still want to know the answer, I’m planning on following my orders until I don’t have anymore.”

“That – sounds like a legitimate choice. Just – but _after_ Aerys dies, where – where would you and Lord Connington end up?”

 _Fair question_ , she has to admit.

“In theory,” she says, “by going back to the place where we arrived, just after Aerys dies, we _might_ – well, the person who brought us said that we’d just wake up in _this_ new future we created. In _our_ bodies. But we’d remember everything. If it all goes well. Lord Connington is not going back, though.”

“How would you know?”

“I – I’ve been told. I don’t know why, maybe the prince has recognized him and he’ll be able to be in court as – some kind of advisor? I hope it’s something like that. Anyway, he’s at the Stoney Sept, he’d have never made it. But he could do it. Me, I – I don’t think so. At some point, when _the other_ Brienne of Tarth grows up, someone would notice that we’d be eerily similar, and I’m – hardly the person you mistake for anyone else. And the story I told the king, it will hold up just until someone tries to check it. I should probably go back and see if I really do wake up in Tarth seventeen years from now. If it all goes well. But I’ll worry about it when it’s time.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “Just one last thing then. You – you said there shouldn’t be any shame in asking for help, or am I wrong?”

“No. What do you need?”

“If fate says I have to kill that mad bastard, I will. But – do you think you could be there for it?”

He’s whispering as he asks, his voice so low it’s barely audible, and he sounds so uncertain about it that she can feel what’s left of the already broken pieces of her heart shatter all over again as she reaches out, grasps his hands and says, “Of course I will. That’d be the least.”

“All right,” he says, sounding relieved, and after he gives her hands a squeeze, he lets them go and stands up. “I suppose we should both get some sleep then. We do have a lot to think about, don’t we?”

“Indeed we do.”

He doesn’t look like he _wants_ to go, though.

“Unless you wish to – share again?” She asks, tentatively.

“Could we?” He replies, sounding _relieved_ , all over again.

She nods and they both end up on her bed, the sword lying in between them because none of them had tried to move it from the place it was in and she’s entirely fine with it, her hand grasping his own as they both wrap it around the hilt, and when the next morning she has to slip away from the bed in order to go resume her duties, she leaves it be instead of trying to move it back under the mattress – he should get some sleep while he still can.

\--

Then she arrives in the throne room and is welcomed by the news that Tywin Lannister’s army has surrounded the city and is trying to break in.

For a moment, she can only think, _what, why, how –_

And then she remembers what Varys said.

 

 _Nothing that hasn’t happened before_.

 

Gods.

 _Gods_.

He made sure that Lannister got the same fake news that _they_ got, so now he’s –

Trying to storm the city _the same way he did before_ , isn’t he?

Of course, Varys isn’t anywhere to be seen. _Of course,_ Jaime is immediately roused and dragged downstairs and she can see his skin turn an unhealthy shade of pale as Aerys notifies him of the fact and asks for his father’s head, _same as he had the last time, hadn’t he_?

They need to act.

And they need to act _soon_.

\--

“ _What_ is this about?” Jaime hisses at her when Aerys tells the both of them to leave because he has people he needs to _confer_ to and they should make sure the Dornish princess is safe, and then go at once for Lord Tywin.

Brienne was actually surprised he didn’t order them to go for Lord Tywin first.

“It’s – I told you, it happened _before_ , but – gods. When Varys said he had a plan in the works that might get things moving, I hadn’t realized he meant _making sure your father thought Rhaegar really had died_.”

“Shit,” Jaime says, “and what we do _now_? That room is full, you can’t presume –”

“No,” she says, “ _no._ You – go find Elia, Aegon and Rhaenys. _Possibly_ , get Varys along the way – he has to be lurking somewhere and we had agreements to smuggle them out through the hidden tunnels under the castle.”

“There are _hidden tunnels_?”

“Varys would know them,” she says. “I’m – I’m going to get Oathkeeper and I’ll wait for you here. If things are going the way I’m suspecting, it cannot be long. The wildfire is _already_ under the city and we know it. Go and keep them safe.”

“I could –”

“Jaime Lannister, at the ripe age of thirty-five you _still_ regretted not having saved them. _Go_.”

He stares at her for a long, long moment, then nods and runs off in the other direction.

Brienne hopes that Varys _will_ let himself be found lest she ends up killing _him_ before she has to leave, and she runs towards the White Tower. She bursts into the room, throws out her sword, raises the mattress and puts Oathkeeper back where it belongs, _finally_ , and then runs back out, towards the palace.

She sees most of the golden cloaks head for the city and she can _hear_ that the gates are crumbling, and she can hear people screaming, and she only hopes that Gregor Clegane is _not_ heading for the Red Keep.

Then she takes in a deep breath and starts running again. She needs to see this through, however it goes.

\--

No one stops her – the Red Keep looks almost empty, in comparison to its usual. Someone tells her to get her arse out and go find Lannister already and she says she will the moment she sees that the king is taken care of, but other than that, no one tries to even talk to her.

Good.

By the time she has reached the throne room’s door, her heart beating so fast she thinks it’ll jump out of her damned chest if they don’t end this soon. It’s not even locked, and she stands, hoping to see Jaime come from the other side of the hallway, but then –

“So, have you heard?” Aerys asks someone, most likely the damned pyromancer.

“I heard, Your Grace,” the man says.

“Then go. Burn them all. Burn them in their homes, burn them in their beds, and you can open the gates to Tywin Lannister if he burns, too.”

 _No_ , Brienne thinks, _no, no,_ this is too soon, but – but she can’t let that happen. She _can’t,_ and so the moment the man leaves the room she’s right there outside, sword held out.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, and she _is_ , at least for him. The man barely has time to see what he’s running into before he’s fallen on Oathkeeper’s blade and died in the span of mere moments, and at least _this_ is taken care of.

Gods, if she thinks about how she felt when she killed a man for the first time and how she’s feeling _now_ , she could throw up.

She could.

(No one had told her killing would feel so horrible the first time, and then less and less. She’s never _not_ felt somewhat badly, but right now she wants to feel sick just for how detached she’s feeling at the sight of that man’s corpse crumbling over the ground, and –

There’s no point. It’s useless.)

But she _won’t_ , because _that_ Brienne of Tarth has changed for better or for worse, and Jaime still cannot be seen anywwhere, and she can’t wait for another pyromancer to come here to take Aerys’s orders.

She lowers her sword slightly, and walks inside the room.

\--

“And what are _you_ doing here?” Aerys spits the moment he sees her, standing from his iron seat. His palms slash themselves open against the blades surrounding the throne’s armrests. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Preventing a catastrophe,” she answers, as calmly as she can, holding the blade out. It’s probably telling that Aerys doesn’t even notice that it’s not a _normal_ sword, but then again the entire room has the curtains closed and the only lights around are torches on the walls and in the corners, the entire room bathed in bloody firelight, and she can feel her own skin sweating all over inside her white armor that belonged to a man that surely deserved to wear it more than she ever will, and for a moment she wonders, _how would it have felt to die the way Rickard Stark did_?

She grips at Oathkeeper’s hilt tighter.

“You have different orders, Lady Rohanne. And don’t think he was the only one with the same instructions. This city needs to burn. All of it.”

“And you with it, Your Grace?” She asks, trying to sound neutral and not like he’s mocking him, but everything she sees right now is an old man who lost his wits and sanity and touch with reality a long time ago and wants to – to burn everything down so that no one else can have what he considers his by right. She thinks of what Jaime told her the first time. Maybe he really thinks he’d be reborn as a dragon – didn’t his son come to life during such a night, as well?

Hadn’t _her_ own ancestor died on such a night, too?

 _Well, I cannot afford to_ _follow in your footsteps, Ser Duncan. Not for this, either. As much as I wish I had followed in yours when it came to different things._

“And all of _us_ ,” Aerys hisses, stomping down the stairs. “They have to burn. So, they think they can take _my realm_ from me? _Burn. Them. All_ ,” he laughs, and Brienne thinks, _how could everyone have thought Jaime dishonorable for ridding the world of such a man_ , and then –

Then –

Then everything is so _clear_ in front of her, so perfectly, crystalline clear, that she can’t understand how she didn’t reach this conclusion first.

Maybe because she never was good at skirting around oaths even if she became better at choosing them, and maybe because when she’s been in front of this same choice it hadn’t seemed so _similar_ , and maybe because she wouldn’t dare mess around with prophecies, and maybe all three things at the same time and maybe not _just_ that, but –

But she hadn’t realized, while looking at this specific matter from every angle and every point of view, that she couldn’t find a way to get out of this mess because _she_ was part of the problem, and she wishes she hadn’t taken this long to realize it, because then – then she could have solved things much faster, and she wouldn’t be coming to the obvious conclusion at the least convenient time of all.

Still.

 _Now_ she knows what she has to do, and she doesn’t know how she hadn’t seen it before, but the more she stares at Aerys’s thin form, at his mad eyes, at his skeletal hands and at his once silver hair burning almost red as embers with only fire as a light source, she knows _who_ she’s seeing.

She’s not seeing Aerys right now.

She’s seeing Lady Stoneheart asking her if she chose a sword or a noose and asking her for Jaime’s head, and what did she answer the first time?

 

_I will not make that choice._

 

But then –

Then she _had_ , hadn’t she, and it had hurt, it had torn her up inside, but she couldn’t choose the man she loved over a woman that was long dead and who should have stayed dead, and right now she knows that she can’t let him do this, she _can’t_ let him do this in a world where he still hasn’t had to tear himself apart the same way _she_ had.

Well then.

“No,” she says. “No, no one is burning, Your Grace. Not even you.”

And then she steps forward and thrusts the sword into Aerys’s heart, without letting him have a say – she hears a feeble, barely audible _let them_ before she thrusts in _deeper_ , and she doesn’t know what it says about her that the only thing she can think as she watches the corpse sink on the ground and dark, red blood spills on the ground and on the blade

( _it’s the same shade of red_ )

and on her own hands and white cloak is _good riddance and I hope there’s enough fire in whichever of the Seven Hells you end up in_ , but the moment it does –

The moment it does, she doesn’t have time to let herself feel relieved, because then she’s heard a sword clash to the ground behind her and she’s turned towards the door and Jaime’s right behind her, sword on the floor, looking at her with wide, surprised green eyes, his mouth opening and closing, and then –

“What have you _done_?” He asks, sounding like he’s going to be sick.

“What does it look like?” She replies, hoping that her tone of voice stays steady instead of dropping fast into the realm of hysterics, even if she’s entirely tempted to let it.

Gods. She did it.

She killed the Mad King. And she can entirely understand why Jaime had said he didn’t rue it, back when he told her in that bath.

Gods, it seems like it happened such a long time ago, and instead it’s been merely a few years, _for her_.

“But – _you_ – but you said _I_ had to,” he finally manages to say, sounding like he doesn’t get it.

“True,” she said, “you _should_ have had to. But then I decided I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Brienne, for – you said it, it was _fate_! If that prophecy said it had to be me –”

“ _Fuck fate_!” She blurts, and then she realizes what she’s just said, and he’s still looking at her like he can’t make sense of what she’s even saying, but –

But it had felt damn _liberating_ to say it, and she knows that her time here is coming close and that she cannot stay.

She might as well make the most of it.

“Fuck it,” she repeats. “You did it once. It destroyed you. And even with everything that’s changed now, I don’t know if it would again, and I cannot let that happen, Jaime. I can’t risk it. I just – I cannot. Because you deserve better than that, and you deserve better than living with _that_ man’s death on your bloody conscience, and you deserve better than people calling you an oathbreaker with no honor for having paid the realm a service. I – I already had to kill _my_ old liege lady after she went insane. Well, more than that, but there’s no time to go into that right now. I’ll have to live with it, _if_ I live. At this point, living with _him_ on my conscience changes nothing to me, while you – you still haven’t – there’s no point in turning you into a kingslayer when it could be avoided. ”

“Brienne –”

“No, listen to me. I – I don’t know how much time I have, and there’s a way we can salvage this so that _fate_ is content with it.”

“I’m listening,” he says, nodding and suddenly staring at her with full awareness. Good.

She moves closer to him, puts a hand on his shoulder, fully aware that this is most likely the last time they’ll ever touch, and then thrusts Oathkeeper’s hilt into his free hand.

“You gave that sword to me once,” she said. “I – I always thought it was on loan. I never gave it back to you because you always made the exceedingly good point that I could have used it with more proficiency, especially when we were surrounded by dead men we had to kill all over again. But there are no dead men here now and I think I kept all the oaths I could, so – you should have it back.”

“I can’t –”

“You _can_. _Take it_.”

He nods, his fingers closing around the hilt.

“Good. Now – you never lacked for imagination. Say you found that sword somewhere and saw it as a sign, or hide it and get yours dirty with his blood or come up with a story that might satisfy whoever walks inside this room next. Hopefully Jon will be with Rhaegar – well, both of them will be – and they _both_ know that you _had_ to do this. Tell them you did it – no one is going to remember that I was around save for the princess and her daughter, and I think Elia will know that speaking of me around would be a very bad idea. But gods, please tell them _why_ you would have done that and don’t let anyone call you dishonorable for it. It shouldn’t have happened. No one should have put you in that position and you should have never had to guard such a man for _oaths_ and then called an oathbreaker for saving the entire city. Whoever tries to put it into question, just _tell_ them. You kept that secret for fifteen years and it ruined you more than killing Aerys actually did, I think. And you deserve much better than that. All right?”

“All right,” he says, seriously, always staring at her like he’s trying to figure something out, his fingers wrapping around Oathkeeper’s hilt so hard it hurts. “And – are you leaving now?”

“I have to,” she says. “If I’m around questions will be asked, and staying wouldn’t be worth the amount of lies I would have to come up with. I don’t even know if it will work or _where_ I will find myself in, but – would you pay me a favor?”

“After everything you just did?” He laughs, disbelievingly, and maybe it’s just _wrong_ given that she has her hands dirty with Aerys’s blood and there’s a corpse on the ground and this is _not_ how things should have gone, but she can’t bring herself to care. “Of course. You only have to ask.”

She tries to put it _nicely_ , but words never were her strong suit – they were _his_ – and she doesn’t know how much longer she can stall.

“Back where I come from – doing _this_ didn’t pay you any favors, but you also – didn’t really try that much harder to be better than what other people thought of you. Don’t do it again. Don’t let other people dictate what you should want or do. Because that’s what you had done up until the point we met, and I’m not saying it because I figured that out, _you_ told me on your damned deathbed. You know what was your biggest regret?”

“No. What was it?”

“ _Having wasted fifteen years of my life not giving a fuck_ , or so you said. You can be Arthur Dayne still, you know. You don’t _have_ to be the Smiling Knight, if you choose your vows wisely. And the man I buried was the best man I had known and a better one than this realm ever deserved. Don’t let anything stop you from being that person, if you want to pay me _one_ favor should we never see each other again.”

“I – I don’t know if I can swear that, but I guess I could try. That said, I think – I think there’s something I should do before you leave, my lady.”

“Then be quick about it because I don’t know how long I have left –”

– _here_ , she was about to say.

She never does, because then he’s dropped the sword to the ground and he’s put his hands on her face and he has angled it slightly downwards and his mouth is touching hers _way_ more gently than anyone would think in such a situation, and –

And then he _presses_ , and –

And Brienne thinks there’s a limit to _anyone’s_ force of will, and she just about reached hers, and she doesn’t know if she’ll have another chance and gods, she’s only ever kissed him when he had a beard and his cheeks certainly weren’t smooth, but the mouth is the same and _he kisses in the exact same way he used to back in their when_ , and she thinks she’s crying as she parts her lips and kisses him in return without holding back, her tongue meeting his and her bloodied hands grasping at his hair

( _it’s longer than it was when they did this, but it’s as soft as it was back then and he moans into her mouth the same way he always did_ )

and her vision is blurry when she has to lean back and take a breath, and her mouth feels like it’s _burning_ and she has to wipe at her face just to see him in focus, and –

Why is he _smiling_?

“I knew that,” he breathes, his hands still cupping her face.

“You – you _knew_?”

“Fine, I suspected,” he says, and why does he sound happy about this? He shouldn’t. He _shouldn’t_. “I mean, I might not have much of an experience with having _friends_ , but sometimes I thought you looked at me the way – the way I know I looked at, er –”

“Cersei?”

“… Right,” he says, shaking his head. “But I thought I might be making it up, and then you went and did _that_ and – Brienne, apologies, but no one does such a thing for their _friends_.”

“… That’s because you’re not,” she admits.

“I _understood_ that. Now please, just – don’t lie. Where you come from, were we lovers or not?”

“We were,” she says. “Not from the beginning. We kind of couldn’t stand each other at that point. But then – yes.”

“Good,” he says, “because I can entirely understand my own bloody choices then.”

“What –”

“You said your father is the Evenstar and if everything goes well you’ll be with us again seventeen years from now, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s not sure –”

“Never mind that. Good to know.”

“Jaime, you aren’t seriously implying that –”

“I would be willing to wait for that long?” He laughs, but now it’s not sad or self-depreciative or anything of the kind. Now it’s – it’s the same way he used to when he meant it or when they had the luxury of waking up late in the morning after sharing a bed the entire night, the same way he used to when he told her – “Brienne, I think I would be making a very, very poor decision if I did _not_.”

“Jaime, _no_ ,” she immediately retorts, feeling like she _will_ pass out if this conversation goes on any longer, and she shakes her head at once. “ _Don’t_. It’s too long. I don’t doubt you _could_ , but –”

“Why’s that?” He asks, smirking, and _he has no business doing such a thing_ , damn it –

“Because you told me straight that you never had any other woman than Cersei in your entire life and we met when you were three and thirty, and it was obvious you were telling the truth. But – you deserve better than waiting around for that long for the likes of _me_. Find a nice woman who’ll be the lady you deserve, if you don’t want to stay in the Kingsguard anymore, but – you shouldn’t bet half of your life on –”

She never finishes that sentence either because he’s shaken his head and brought hers down and kissed her _again_ and she’s so weak that she can’t resist and she kisses him back, her hands grasping at his neck and shoulders, and she _knows_ she should go, but if this is the last time it happens she wants to remembers how he tastes and how his tongue feels against hers and how his lips would always find a way to drag moans from her, and then he’s moved back, his fingers caressing her face, scar included, and it’s too much.

It’s _too much_ –

“I shouldn’t bet that much time on the one person who was _good_ to me in the last what, seven years, and on one person who I’ve been wanting to kiss for a damned long while before finding out I actually _might have done that_ in another life, and on one person who cares for my well-being so much that she _killed a king_ just so that _I_ wouldn’t have to and who actually doesn’t make me feel like I’m just _convenient_ to them?” He shakes his head, and then stares back up at her, dead serious. “I know you have to go. I’m sorry that you have to, but I understand it. I’ll see you seventeen years from now, Brienne. _Then_ we can discuss things properly.”

“Jaime, you don’t _have_ to –”

“What if I want to?”

“But – you said –”

“If you mean Cersei,” he says, “I think maybe my older self knew better. And if it took him long enough to understand a few things, I don’t have to make the same mistakes all over again. Elia and her children are safe, he’s dead, I think you did good. Go, I’ll make sure everyone thinks it was me. And remember that I keep my oaths.”

“You don’t have to,” she says, not even bothering to stop a few more tears from falling over her face.

“I know,” he says, “but I _want_ to.” He leans forward again, his lips pressing against her scarred cheek, and then he moves back and he’s smiling at her so sweetly she almost might faint. “Go, before I stop you.”

She should.

Instead she nods, then puts a hand behind his neck, crushing their lips together a last time just in case this really goes wrong, and then –

_Lady Brienne, I won’t be here for long. You have to leave. Now._

“I – I have to,” she says, “but – I hope I’ll see you again. In whichever way it has to happen.”

“I _know_ you will,” he says, leaning back down to take Oathkeeper in his hands again, and she turns her back on him lest she does something colossally stupid and misses her passage back to the future, or so she supposes.

She _runs_ , getting rid of her cloak so that it doesn’t stand out too much, then reaches the stables – there’s a few horses inside it, _good_ –, steals one of them and gallops out of the castle. Thankfully there’s such a mess outside that no one notices her in the rubble – she steals a sword off some soldier who tried to stop her, and she makes her way through the crowd, up until she sees an opened gate.

She rides out.

The tree wasn’t too far, she remembers the way, and she pushes the horse as hard as she can, hoping that she’s not too late and completely unable to regret having stalled for so long, not when at least if she has to die she will do it with the memory of Jaime’s mouth against hers fresh and bright, and then she’s finally seeing the damned tree in the distance and it’s glowing white, but _faintly_ , and –

She jumps out of the horse, wishing she wasn’t wearing armor because it slows both of them down, but taking it off would require to much time, and so she runs uphill towards a tree that’s still glowing but not so brightly anymore, and progressively less so, and then –

 _Quick_ , Bran’s voice tells her, and she takes another deep breath and sprints into a last run, and her hand slams on the tree’s glowing bark just as it shines bright all over again as if in a last blaze of glory before it dies down for good, and –

 _You did it,_ Bran says, _thank you_ , she hears, and then –

Then she feels _again_ like someone’s just punched her in the gut with an iron gauntlet and she closes her eyes against that blinding, white light, and hopes against hope that she really wakes up in a better world than either of the two that she left behind.

One moment, she’s standing in front of the heart tree.

Then next, she’s not there anymore.

 

 

**One month later**

 

 

 _Seems like Rhaegar will have his work cut for him_ , Jon thinks as he walks inside the infamous tavern he used to go to, and which has somehow survived the sack of King’s Landing intact. Half of the city has been torched, but then, from what he heard, Lannister managed to get the situation under control almost on his own by going around with a _Valyrian steel sword_ , not that Jon can’t imagine where that came from, rallying the golden cloaks and putting some semblance of order into the chaos that had aroused. He also slew Gregor Clegane as he tried to enter the Red Keep, and that’s ot what _people say_ – he knows that because he’s spoken to a fair number of people who had been running _from_ King’s Landing. He also knows that he actually _arrested his damned father_ while _waiting for whoever won at the Stoney Sept_ to get inside the city on account of having sacked the city when there was no need to do it. Jon was tempted to actually go to the Red Keep and investigate, but the mere thought sends a pang of hurt through his chest and he doesn’t think he can do that now or _ever_ , or at least not so soon. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing _here_ , to be honest, but he figured that if someone wanted to find work or any such thing, even leaving with a group of people would be easier, from _here_.

At least, he has enough money to survive for a short while, he thinks bitterly as he orders an ale. The owner is in good spirits, though, or so it seems.

“Any reason why you’re the only happy man I’ve seen in King’s Landing up until this point?” Jon asks, figuring that it won’t hurt.

“Food and ale are never out of business if armies pass by, and in between what’s left of the golden cloaks and the royal army, I’m doing plenty all right. And thank the Seven the place got spared when bloody Tywin Lannister stormed in. Admittedly, everyone would be fine with it if his son decided to stick around, but who knows.”

“Who, Jaime Lannister?”

The owner shrugs. “Might not be eight and ten, and he might’ve killed the fucking mad arsehole, but no one thinks it was a _bad deed_ and sure as the seven hells he’s not half bad at keeping the situation under control. Though I guess that now that the king’s back he’ll have to resign his post or somethin’.”

“Just resign?”

“If they tried to kill him when as far as we knew Rhaegar was _dead_ , the entire smallfolk would kill them first. He hanged everyone in his father’s army who destroyed honest people’s business or raped their women or both, people don’t forget so soon.”

 _Good_ , Jon thinks. At least the one thing they were mostly worried about won’t come to pass, as much as he hates that the sack happened nonetheless, but he has a feeling that it was somehow fated to be. He drinks some more of his ale, finding a free table, wondering _and what in the Seven Hells do I do now_ , and then –

“Fancy seeing you around again, Ser Roland,” a familiar voice says, and he looks up to see _someone_ indeed familiar sitting in front of him at his table.

“It seems like there was no fighting to be had,” he truthfully replies. “Fancy seeing you around, too, _Eddard_. Still in the business?”

“No,” comes as a reply. “I mean, I _could_ be, I guess, but when entire armies are passing through the city, it’s not a very good business to be in except for the owners, and that place’s owner was done with me a long time ago, I think. I might’ve told him I was quitting that specific business. He saw nothing wrong with it.”

“Should I congratulate myself or not?”

“Good question. I don’t know either. I mean, I had been working there since I was twelve, it’s not like I have much more experience.”

Jon tries not to flinch at how _young_ he just said he was when he started out in that job.

“Then again, I hated it, especially lately, if not for some specific exceptions to the rule.”

Jon looks up and meets hazel eyes all over again and lets himself smirk ever so slightly – fair point.

“I don’t know,” he says, “if it says anything good about me, that it seems like I was one of the specific exceptions to the rule.”

“Why shouldn’t it? Say anything good about you.”

“If the average sucks, being _slightly better than average_ shouldn’t really say much.”

“See, just the fact that you’re actually saying that proves my point. Anyway, as I was saying, fancy seeing you around. Did you have any plans?”

Jon laughs and drinks the last of his ale. “No,” he says. “I just didn’t have a better place to go.”

“Nice,” Eddard replies, “since I haven’t left just because I don’t have a better place to head to, either. Should we toast to this unlikely coincidence?”

“Why not,” Jon says, and then he raises his remaining arm, waving at the owner and telling him to bring two more tankards and paying for both immediately.

“Flattered,” Eddard tells him, “but I _could_ have paid.”

“I could pay, too,” Jon mutters. “And I think I need a few drinks.”

“Any particular reason to? Sorry if it’s a nosy question, but I don’t get too many chances for this kind of small talk.”

Jon shrugs, figuring that there won’t be anything harmful in admitting it. “There was a man,” he says. “In that – in the army.”

“I suppose it didn’t go well?”

“It couldn’t,” Jon sighs. “I – I don’t really think I had a chance. But this – this time around, it was clear. I’ve been trying to sort it out. I think I mostly have, but I sorely need a drink anyway.”

“Fair enough,” Eddard replies. “So, your man isn’t interested?”

“Definitely not,” Jon admits, cringing slightly, trying to not let that get to him. He shouldn’t. He’s learned his lesson, hasn’t he?

“Too bad for him,” Eddard says very nonchalantly, as he takes a drink, too, and Jon almost spits his own.

“ _Sorry_?”

Eddard shrugs. “Sorry if I’m kind of blunt, but you know. My line of work. I never learned the point of subtleties.”

“No, it’s – it’s all right. I meant, _too bad for him_? Really?”

“Well, unless this man isn’t interested because he only likes women, which I suppose is fair… given the look on your face right now, he did something worse than just _not being interested_ , and given what I’ve seen of you… you deserve far better.”

“Don’t flatter me too much,” Jon says, conveniently downing some more ale – he doesn’t even know if he understood right, but if he has –

“By the way,” Eddard asks, “what were those ravens about?”

“Oh,” Jon says, “I suppose you mean –”

“The ones I had to give to the lady,” Eddard says. “Don’t worry, I haven’t actually read them.”

“They were – I was informing her of how things were proceeding with the army.”

“And wasn’t that something people at the Red Keep would be informed of, anyway?”

Jon has to laugh at that – point taken. “You know, you might’ve been wasted in your previous line of work.”

“I beg to differ. I might not notice this kind of thing if not for _that_. How do you think I would learn to figure people out quickly?”

“That’s – that’s also fair. It’s a long story,” he says, cautiously, “and I wouldn’t be above sharing it, but it’s – nothing most people would believe, anyway.”

“Intriguing. So I suppose you wouldn’t share with just about anyone?”

 _I might as well_ , Jon thinks, _since I’ve told at least two people who shouldn’t have known_.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, _just about anyone_ wouldn’t even believe it anyway. But I guess I wouldn’t be above sharing it if I knew the other person would listen to it.”

“Fair enough.” He reaches out for his own drink and Jon can’t help staring at his mouth the moment he lowers it and licks his lips for a split second.

Gods, he _really_ has his mind in the gutter, doesn’t he?

“So,” Jon clears his throat, figuring that breaking the silence wouldn’t be a bad idea before this turns somehow embarrassing, “neither of us has plans, or am I wrong?”

“That would be correct. By the way, does the fact that our lady friend has seemingly vanished into thin air have anything to do your story being somehow unbelievable?”

“It might,” Jon concedes. “But it’s – it’s how things were supposed to go for her.” He takes a deep breath. “And maybe that’s how they were supposed to go for me, but they didn’t.”

“As in, _you_ should’ve disappeared into thin air?”

“Pretty much,” he admits, “but – I chose differently.”

“Well, let me tell you, it’d have been a pity given that not many good-looking men who weren’t also total arses bought me any drinks lately.”

At _that_ , Jon about chokes on the ale he was swallowing and doesn’t cough it out just because it was mostly down his throat already.

 _Before_ , he could have just assumed they were both joking, but –

He looks up into hazel eyes that are staring straight at him, and –

_Gods, he actually means it._

“I wouldn’t know about the _good-looking_ part of it, but good to know I’m not an arse.”

“Don’t sell yourself too short, Ser Roland. Some of us can look past missing limbs. And – gods, it _really_ does show what my previous line of work was, doesn’t it?”

“I – I don’t think it is. How so?”

“Because,” Eddard replies, his voice suddenly dropping a lot lower, “I might be trying to say that I think the chance of running into _you_ out of everyone in this mess of a situation was low and I’m certainly not regretting it, but everything I can come up with is ways to hint that we should fuck already, and that wasn’t exactly what I wanted to say here.”

Jon looks down at the table, where he can see that the other man’s free hand, the one not gripping the tankard, has fingertips drumming slightly over the dirty wood of the surface, as if he’s _nervous_ and very much so, and he’s not quite looking at Jon when he glances back up – more at the bottom of his pint.

Before Jon can consider _is he actually trying to proposition me and when the hell did that happen_ , his own remaining hand has suddenly moved downwards, grasping at Eddard’s wrist just enough that any motion of the man’s hand stops but at the same time, so that people might not get suspicious. It’s not lunch or dinner time, but it’s still almost full and the last thing he needs is drawing attention.

“Really?” He asks, his own voice going so low _he_ can barely hear himself.

“It’s kind of sad that you need to ask.”

“Kind of – just so you know, I’m hardly a catch right now, I’m missing an arm, I’ve just realized that I’ve spent more than half of my life loving someone who could have never reciprocated it and my real name’s not even Roland. I’m flattered, but I don’t know if –”

“I think I knew that,” comes as a reply. “I mean, both you and _Rohanne_ seemed to stop yourselves before using your given names. And no one who comes to our humble establishment ever gives out their real names. Other than that, I think I made it abundantly clear that the arm isn’t an issue. And when it comes to your… other man, if you were in love with _him_ that long and he didn’t even notice it says nothing good about him, and if he noticed and didn’t at least let you down nicely before you could move on it says nothing good either, and if you still loved him that long – that doesn’t exactly make you _not_ a catch, if you grasp my meaning.”

Hells, Jon thinks, _what do I even do or say, no one’s actually ever done this, certainly in the Golden Company none of us propositioned each other_ –

“And maybe you can’t see it, but coming from _my_ position, loving someone for that long is kind of a feat, ser.”

Oh.

 _Oh_ , Jon thinks, the pieces suddenly falling together, and –

He considers bolting for a moment, because _what should he even do_ , but then he stays where he is, their hands still touching, and he thinks, _what were the chances we might actually run into each other in the first place?_

“I think,” he says, “that maybe this conversation should – we shouldn’t have it here.”

“I think,” Eddard replies, “that you’re entirely right.”

They finish their drinks, then Jon stands out first and nods towards the back – there’s a small alley there, he noticed before. He leaves the inn, turns right and heads for the backroad, breathing in heavily, thinking _what in the Seven Hells I’m doing here_ , and he doesn’t know how long he has to wait before he hears footsteps coming from the other side of the street.

“So,” Jon says, “are you saying that for some kind of reason you _like_ me and we should try to make sense together of our lack of plans?”

“Maybe that’s what I was saying,” the other man replies, moving up closer. “I mean, that is, if you’d want to. You think _you’re_ not a catch but I doubt _I_ count as one, for that matter –”

Jon can _see_ it in the way he’s holding himself together and at how rigid his shoulders are right now, and for a split moment he thinks that it’s just surreal that he’s in _this_ position when a month ago or so he was in – in the opposite, pretty much, but that’s not the point.

The point is –

The point is, _what does he want_?

He doesn’t know if he’s ever asked himself _that_ question. Especially given how long it’s been since the answer wasn’t something that was tied to Rhaegar somewhat.

He shakes his head, moves closer, puts his remaining hand on the rough cloth of Eddard’s old cloak, and –

“Just so you know,” he says, “my real name is Jon, as much as I was starting to get adjusted to the other one,” and then before he can get an answer he leans in, and he thinks that they actually never kissed even if they _did_ fuck quite a lot during that past month, and _damn_ , the last time he kissed someone and meant it, it was _when he was in the Golden Company_.

It should be sad.

It probably _is_ sad, but maybe it’s high time he stops thinking about how much that word can be applied to his life up until this point and does something to make up for it, and a moment later there are hands around his shoulders and soft lips pressed against his own and he doesn’t know what he had been expecting, but the moment it happens he just stops overthinking it and takes a few steps forward, headed towards a darkened corner and pressing Eddard up against the wall, their tongues meeting the moment it happens, and there are nails digging against his back and as he leans back to catch his breath, he realizes he hasn’t thought about _how it would have felt to kiss Rhaegar instead_ for a single second, when it had happened – with about every other person he’s ever kissed in his life, he thinks.

“Nice,” Eddard breathes against his mouth a moment later. “I mean, both _that_ and – the name. Suits you better than Roland, I think.”

“Good to know,” he replies, and why is he feeling _somehow_ giddy right now? “Still, I had very good reasons to use it. I might need to use it as long as I’m around here.”

“Is that about – the infamous unbelievable story?”

“I’ve got enough money for a room for a couple nights at least,” Jon says cautiously. “Maybe I could tell you later?”

He almost gasps when a moment later his hand is grabbed in a fairly tight hold. “Maybe you could. But I’m paying for drinks next time.”

He can’t – he can barely make sense of everything that’s happening right now, but as he grasps back and tangles their fingers together (for _now_ , they couldn’t risk doing such a thing in the open, but there’s no one in this alley and he’ll take advantage as long as he can), he decides that whatever happens now, going back to King’s Landing was – was worth it, after all.

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I SWEAR I'M HAVING THIS WRAPPED UP WITHIN THE END OF THE MONTH. /o\


	8. Brienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Brienne reaps the seeds of what she's sown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... OH HI HELLO I'M FINISHED I CANNOT BELIEVE I ACTUALLY DID.
> 
> Anyway: if you were wondering when the fluff was going to happen, HERE IT IS. HAVE IT. I TOLD YOU IT WAS GONNA COME, IT DID. Also, I *might* do a few extra scenes from this in the next couple of days because there was stuff I wanted in this that didn't fit because of POV reasons/timing reasons but anyway the main story's done and here and I hope you all enjoy the ending, and thanks for sticking with this behemoth. <3 
> 
> Also, mind that I changed the rating and the new tags. Here, have fun. *drops chapter with a relieved breath and runs*

Brienne opens her eyes.

For a moment, everything is completely blank – a moment ago she was standing and she was wearing armor and there was blinding white light everywhere and her stomach _hurt_ , and now she’s lying down on a bed and she’s staring at a familiar ceiling but she can’t quite put together _how_ –

Or better, a moment ago she was just waking up after a more or less decent night, not counting that horrid dream she had about what she heard Ronnet Connington say behind her back that time he visited Tarth years ago, _I wouldn’t marry Lord Tarth’s sow of a daughter if they paid me to_ –

Then she almost screams as she arches upwards, sitting up on the bed, feeling like she could throw up and like her entire brains are getting scrambled and on one side she’s seeing herself going through more or less all the same things she had gone through the first time around except for a few differences –

( _Ronnet Connington never was one of her suitors because with his uncle being Hand of the King he could aim higher, she never followed Renly anywhere because there was no war of the Five Kings to be had so she’s never left Tarth and at this point she hates knowing that she most likely never will because Ser Humphrey still happened and the ban on not marrying anyone who couldn’t best her in combat is still valid_ )

And she remembers feeling like _something_ was missing or lacking or was wrong all this time and now she _knows_ what it was, it was _not knowing all along that she’s gone back in time and that_ she _killed the Mad King however long ago it was_ –

She barely recognizes her own room on Tarth that she hasn’t seen in years –

( _Or maybe since yesterday evening_ )

and reaches down for her empty chamber pot, and doesn’t try to stop herself from feeling sick – better to just let it happen.

She closes her eyes as she breathes in and out, her head pounding, her hands grapping at the handles of the pot as she puts it back on the ground. She remembers Jaime’s first death and his face as he said that he would wait for her and Septa Roelle’s voice as she tells her _again_ that she only has to look in the mirror to know what lies in the heart of people complimenting her appearance, and she feels sick again – by the time her stomach’s settled and she’s lying back against her bed she’s breathing in heavily and she feels slightly more settled, even if she hasn’t opened her eyes yet.

She breathes in and out once, twice, thrice, then she does.

 _Now_ she knows she’s in her room in Tarth, that has never changed, and that the pink-tinted sky outside her window is her island’s, same as the sapphire waters all around it, even if now as the sun rises they look a warm shade of rose, not blue. She stands up on unsteady legs, still taking in deep breaths, and immediately finds the mirror that she always loathes looking at, now and before and any time.

For a moment, she’s utterly relieved that she doesn’t have that scar on her face anymore, but of course she wouldn’t, because she’s never been in the position to have one _here_ , has she? For the rest – she looks the way she had back when the Long Night happened, just… not as _hard_ , she supposes. She doesn’t have that scar and she doesn’t have any others, her hair is longer (but doesn’t suit her _that_ much better), her hands are still rough with the callouses that only sword fighting brings and she’s wearing a horrid white nightshirt that she remembers wishing she could tear apart in two lifetimes.

All right.

All right, it seems like whatever’s going on it’s _working_ because she doesn’t feel sick anymore and it just feels like everything’s falling into place, except that then she tries to remember if she _knows_ what went on during the Long Night, if it happened already for that matter, or what Ned Stark ended up doing, or what _Jaime_ ended up doing, because there is no way she wouldn’t know, but –

But she can’t come up with anything.

Damn. _Damn_ , maybe something went wrong in – in the process? Probably. It might as well have.

But – she remembers _everything_ from both her lives and it’s more or less settling in now, so patience about _that_ – she’ll find out. She’s quick to get her bearings together and empty the chamber pot in the privy attached to her room, the last thing she needs is people wondering why she’d throw up in the middle of the night, and she’s washing her face with the cold water left in a pitcher in the corner when someone knocks on her door, and not tentatively.

“My lady?”

That’d be – no one she remembers.

“I – I am awake, just one moment,” Brienne replies, and then opens the door. It’s a maid that she absolutely does not recall but she _knows_ should be named Jeyne, and – right. Of course _she_ ’d know.

“Oh, good,” she says. “We’re barely on time.”

“Barely – on time?”

“Apparently, there was a miscommunication or something of the kind and the Lord of Casterly Rock is getting here _today_ , not tomorrow, and you need to be ready. Your lord father warned us as soon as they got the raven. May I –?”

“Oh – sure. Of course,” she lies, and –

 _The Lord of Casterly Rock?_ What – _why_? She’s fairly sure that if things went as they should have, it should be Tywin Lannister. Or Tyrion. Why would Tyrion come _here_? If Jaime even halfway followed her advice, he’s putting Oathkeeper to its best use and doing what he was born to do, that would be, being a knight, never mind that _he_ couldn’t be Lord of anything if he was in the Kingsguard _and_ if his father was still alive.

Anyhow, she can hardly go and ask direct questions about it, so she moves away and lets the maid come in – another _three_ follow, bringing in a blue dress she hated back in the day and is sure she will hate now, but she can hardly disagree about it, either. And if she’s not getting anything wrong, the one bringing in the dress should be Alysanne and the third Elen, and she doesn’t protest when after advising her to wash her face thoroughly Jeyne starts trying to braid her hair, for how little it _can_ be braided anyway. She knows she took a bath yesterday, even if it wasn’t _all_ of her, and Jeyne remarks that it was a good thing she did, at least she doesn’t need to do it again now.

Brienne just nods and says nothing.

Sadly, the maids do not indulge in chattering or gossiping, and she can’t find out anything more specific about what this entire visit is about – she just knows that by the time the sun is high in the sky she’s dressed properly – corset and gown and proper flat shoes so she doesn’t look too tall, same as _always_ , her hair is braided to the best of its potential and she still doesn’t look any better than she ever did, she thinks glancing at her reflection in the mirror, but –

She has a feeling that after _everything_ she’s gone through, she’s so _done_ caring about how unattractive she might look that it doesn’t affect her at all. And even if she is, Jaime ended up somehow wanting her _twice_ ugly as she was and is, and whether he kept that promise or not (she wouldn’t hold it against him if he didn’t), she knows he meant it both times.

“There,” Jeyne says, “I think you’re ready. Your father said that you should come downstairs as soon as you were done, my lady.”

“Of – of course. I will come in a moment.”

She gives herself a last look in the mirror, shrugs, and then leaves the room.

It’s surreal, walking down the steps of Evenfall Hall when she’s been here all her life and _hasn’t_ been here for years at the same time, but she figures it will stop mattering soon, and she heads straight for her father’s solar, her chest tightening – gods, she hasn’t seen him since yesterday evening but she also hasn’t seen him in _years_ since she left Tarth to fight for Renly, and when she sees him standing behind his large wooden desk and smile at her she has to keep herself in check from running at him and throw her arms around his back – she can’t, not if she doesn’t want him to be worried. After all, as far as he knows, she’s never left Tarth, hasn’t she?

“Brienne,” he says, “I see the maids have told you the news, haven’t they?”

“Yes,” she replies. “He’s – he’s coming here one day earlier than he should have?” If only she knew who _he_ is.

“Seems like it. I still don’t know why he insisted on coming here, usually Tarth is a stop only for the Stormlands lords when they undertake that kind of journey, but then again he _is_ stopping by most castles belonging to lords allied to the Baratheons, too.”

Brienne would like to know _what_ kind of journey Tywin Lannister is undertaking – she’s fairly sure it has to be him. And if Jaime lives after he killed Aerys, she’s sure his father would, too, regardless of having stormed the city – after all, they were acting based on the same piece of information, weren’t they?

“Anyway, let’s just all be at our best behavior and let’s see if we can break some deal or alliance out of it – given that they _are_ allied with the Baratheons it can’t hurt.”

 _Allied with the Baratheons_?

“Of course,” she says, bowing slightly and knowing she’s hardly graceful, given her skirts. “It cannot be worse than that time Lord Humphrey visited, can it?”

Her father laughs at that, looking at her fondly, and he moves from behind the desk, putting a hand on her shoulder – she has a feeling he wanted to ruffle her hair but then didn’t because they’d need to fix it all over again, but he always does it – _used to do it_ – so she _knows_ and she could cry for the familiarity of the way he’s looking at her.

Gods, _she missed him so much_.

“No, I guess it cannot. Well, let’s go. We should be ready to meet him at the harbor. The horses should be ready.”

She nods and follows him out, and she tries to figure this mess out as she does.

 _Allied with the Baratheons_.

The Baratheons have no female heirs to marry off, so it’s definitely not because of Tyrion or Jaime. Then Cersei, she supposes, but – it’s happened once already and she knows even too well how that went. And with _whom_ , for that matter? Stannis? Robert? She can’t imagine it going well either way. Maybe some daughter of Tywin’s sister? If she even had one?

And _what kind of trip_ would Tywin Lannister be on, anyway?

She shakes her head and decides that she’ll just find out when it’s time to – no point wasting time trying to put together some picture when she doesn’t have the pieces.

She mounts on the horse, hating how it uncomfortable it feels because of the damned gown, and rides out following her father, Septa Roelle – she’s still here in this world, isn’t she – and Ser Goodwin, who sends her a complicit look when mutters she’d have rather worn breeches.

Well, she decides, at least her island is safe and her father is safe and whatever happened in the rest of the continent, it didn’t touch either of them.

Good. At least she hasn’t gone through all that suffering in vain, even if it’s the only result she obtained.

\--

They’re at the harbor at midday, just in time to see a ship flying a red and gold sigil heading in that direction. Brienne glances at her father – he looks… not _worried_ , not quite so, but he’s obviously ready to be courteous and as deferential as it gets with the head of such a House, and she still would like to know _what_ is Tywin Lannister doing on Tarth. Or traveling around the Seven Kingdoms. Of course, if Rhaegar is king then he wouldn’t be his Hand anymore, she thinks Jon – or better, his young self – will have that position as long as he lives at this point, but then – _why_?

She breathes in, bracing herself for whatever’s going to happen – she doubts that Tywin Lannister would even look at her twice, and she doubts she would appreciate her looking down on him in the first place.

Then the ship docks.

And the moment she sees _who_ is coming up in front of anyone else in the crew, ready to dismount first, she wants to faint.

It’s not Tywin Lannister. It’s not even Tyrion.

It’s –

It’s _Jaime_ , but –

When they met for the first time, he had both hands but certainly hadn’t been in his best shape, not after a year in a dungeon. _After_ , it’s not like he ever looked any less beautiful to _her_ , but it was obvious that he resented losing that hand however much it might have lessened through the years, and most of all, she always had seen him dressed in either Kingsguard white or gray, at whichever age they ended up meeting.

Now –

She remembers that time when she was in the Riverlands and recalled their bath in Harrenhaal, when she had thought that he looked half a corpse and half a god.

There’s no _half corpse_ here. Not when he’s the same age he was when he died the first time around but is standing up straight, there’s no gray in his hair (yet), has both hands and is wearing an outfit that’s mostly Lannister red, including a leather jacket that only compliments him more than any white cloak ever could. He’s wearing his hair shorter than he had in the Kingsguard but longer than he had during the Long Night, enough that it touches his neck and it curls slightly at the base, with a short, pristinely kept beard, and the moment she sees Oathkeeper’s hilt at his hip, she decides that if she _doesn’t_ faint before this meeting is over, she’ll be the first one to be surprised.

So –

So, it was _Jaime_ all along?

“Lord Selwyn,” he says as he descends from the ship with a motion that’s entirely too graceful for his own good. “Thank you for coming up here with such short notice. We had better winds than we had figured.”

“My lord,” her father replies, bowing his head. “No need to thank me for doing my duty as a host, at least. I trust your journey was without hassle?”

“Oh, definitely,” Jaime says. “I couldn’t have had it better. And I trust that this is your daughter?”

He turns to look at her, and she looks back at him.

“She is, yes,” her father confirms.

“My lord,” she immediately curtsies. “It’s – an honor to meet you.” She hopes she hasn’t stammered as she said it, but then he moves up closer to her, grasps her wrist in between his fingers and brushes his lips against her hand in the most courteous move anyone might have pulled at that point.

“Lady Brienne,” he says, “likewise.” But then the corner of his mouth quirks up in a small, questioning grin, as if asking, _for the second time?_ , and she can only nod back very tentatively, but his grin gets wider and then he takes a step back. “I’ve heard,” he says, “that you’re extremely proficient with swords, aren’t you?”

“I – I might be,” she replies, cautiously.

“I suppose Lord Renly spread the tale?” Her father asks, his voice neutral.

Renly –

Right. He did come here, _too_ , and he also danced with her, but – but this time _something_ told her that it didn’t feel right, and while she had felt finally like a real lady for the first time, she could see in his eyes that he was doing it out of politeness, not because he was interested. Now she _knows_ why, but still, they did dance, so he probably might have told others that she was better at using a sword than at being a lady after going back to Storm’s End.

“He might have,” Jaime replies. “Well, my lord, I suppose you know from the letter I wrote you that I am here also to discuss a few political matters, but as I think you know as well that I certainly haven’t stopped putting my skills to use when it came to swordsmanship, I was wondering if the Lady Brienne would be so inclined to spar with me one of these days?”

For a moment, her father looks completely baffled, and Brienne is, too, but –

No. No, she shouldn’t be. Because –

He did say he was going to wait. And he’s shown up here seventeen years after the Rebellion, whatever it is that happened after, and he certainly has no wife with him, and –

“I would be glad to, my lord,” she says before anyone else can answer for her. “Even this afternoon, if you wish.”

“Oh, I haven’t had a good spar in months,” he grins. “I would be _delighted_ ,” he finally says before mounting on the horse they brought for him. The retinue will follow, she supposes as she mounts on hers, and of course he talks to her father as they go back to Evenfall Hall and not to _her_ , it would seem indeed very strange if it was the contrary, but –

Her heart’s beating so fast she thinks it won’t hold. Gods. Gods, he’s _here_ and he came back and he just casually challenged her to a swordfight and –

Does he know what she swore? Is he doing that so –

She doesn’t want to think he’s doing this just so that if he wins then he can ask for her hand, because that’s just out of anything she’s barely even dared of dreaming at various points in her life, but he _might be_ and he’s _here_ and he’s _the Lord of Casterly Rock_ and now she wants to know what happened to the Kingsguard and _how_ is his family allied with the Baratheons and a whole heap of other things that she can only ask _him_ , but maybe they’ll have a moment together before evening comes. Gods, she hopes so.

Meanwhile, she’ll be more than glad to get out of this damned trap of a gown and wear her usual garb before she has to challenge him.

\--

She’s honestly relieved when Jaime says that he’d rather just dine in the evening because he had more than enough food on the ship and he’ll be glad to meet her in the yard after he’s done discussing whatever he should with her father – she immediately goes back to her room, gets rid of that damned gown and corset without waiting for a maid to help, and she feels utterly relieved when she is in her usual breeches and shirt. Gods. _Gods_ , she can barely believe this is happening and she _needs_ to talk to him alone, as soon as possible, but she supposes they’ll have time to after their spar, however it goes –

And then she realizes that this time she gets to fight him at his prime and he’s going to have a much better sword than her _and_ both hands and full strength and –

And gods but even if it’s probably not what she should be worrying about, she can’t help thinking, _I can’t wait_.

\--

She’s in the armory an hour later – she’s picked the best sword they have at her disposal, but even after she’s taken hold of it, she keeps on glancing at _that shield_ still hung on its wall, the one with the white tree painted on it.

 _Ser Duncan’s shield_ , not most likely but _for sure_ , at this point.

She resolves on asking her father later because at this point she needs to know if she was right in her assumptions, and then she hears noise outside, which has to mean that Jaime’s there already. She considers it for a moment, then grabs Duncan’s shield and another one from the wall and brings them both outside.

“Would my lord care for using one?” She asks, as courteously as she can manage, and there’s half the staff of the palace _and_ her father standing there but she can only notice Jaime coming up to her, still wearing that red leather jacket – he’s obviously washed his face and refreshed himself a bit, but nothing more than that.

“You know what,” he says, “I might.”

She hands him the one with the Tarth sigil and fixes Duncan’s on her arm. His eyes suddenly get a bit wider as he takes notice of it, but she merely gives him a small nod that no one else might perceive and then says she’s ready and moves in front of him.

“Shall we?” He asks, unsheathing Oathkeeper, and for a moment it feels weird to see anyone else using that sword, but he’s handling it like he was born to do it and she’s just glad that he finally got to use it the way he should have, if fate had been fair to him back in the day.

“Whenever you want, my lord,” she says, trying to sound as neutral as possible, and a moment later their blades are clashing together and the only thing she can think of is, _so this is how he was always supposed to be_ , because he’s moving as surely as he did when he was seventeen but with the skill it was obvious he had back when they fought in the woods before his hand was cut off, and as she blocks the blow and counter-attacks she can’t help thinking that he might have lost nothing leaving the Kingsguard but the Kingsguard lost a lot with _him_ leaving, and then she stops overthinking this because if she gets distracted she’ll lose in a minute.

Thing is – before, they were even. Every other time, they’ve been even.

Now – now he has Valyrian steel and both hands and just from the way he moves it’s plain obvious that there’s a reason why he was the best in her time and he’s most probably the best _now_. She can keep up, she _does_ keep up, and she gives him a tough fight – maybe she has to stay on the defensive more than she’d like, but she doesn’t let him have an opening for a _long_ time – that said, he certainly doesn’t let her advance too much. He moves with such grace that she almost wishes she was watching the both of them rather than being at the opposite end of this fight, but – never mind it. He’s –

 _Everything he was supposed to be, maybe_ , she thinks as she dodges another blow and as her blade clashes against Oathkeeper’s so hard that a few sparks fly.

“I hadn’t had such a good fight in a long time,” he suddenly says as she brings up Duncan’s shield to block his attempt at disarming her.

“Glad to provide it, _my lord_ ,” she shouts back, and gods she can’t help grinning at it because it’s also the best _she_ has ever had even if she knows she’s not going to win it – at most she can hope for a tie, if she’s lucky – and any trick she tries to pull on him, even the ones _he_ taught her, doesn’t work, but a few times she catches him smirking and _oh_ , maybe he actually _knows that she knows_.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that she thinks she needed it, because she hasn’t felt this _right_ since she woke up this morning, and as that specific notion flies through her head, she sees him trying to take advantage of a weak spot she just uncovered on her left side, and she spins so that she can block it, but he had put a _lot_ of strength in it, and she’s matching the blow with equal strength, and for a moment she can feel her muscles straining –

And then the steel of her own sword _cracks_ against Oathkeeper’s, enough that it’s barely usable anymore, and at that she realizes that unless she finds a way to disarm him with Ducan’s old shield that has also seen better days, this time she lost.

Not that she particularly minds.

She lets the hilt of her ruined sword fall and raises up her hands. “I yield,” she says, “I don’t really think I have much of a choice.”

He looks _almost_ sheepish as he relaxes his position and looks down at the cracked steel lying on the ground. “In my defense, I hadn’t known _that_ would happen. That said, too bad, you were giving me an excellent fight, my lady.”

“Likewise, my lord,” she answers. “Anytime you want a rematch, as long as you’re here, I’m available.”

“Thank you,” he says. “And I was wondering, how is it that you ended up with a shield that closely resembles the one that Ser Duncan the Tall left in King’s Landing?”

She feigns surprise and turns to her father, who is _not_ feigning surprise but rather looking like he just figured something out.

“That – that’s a family heirloom, actually. It’s been here since before Ser Duncan died, I think, and admittedly my wife’s grandmother was _not_ a noblewoman as far as we know – she could have been Duncan’s daughter, yes. But I never quite thought – never mind.” Brienne can hear, _I never quite realized who was the ancestor my only living daughter took after_ , but she’ll forgive him – she hadn’t had a clue until she went back in time.

“Well, seems like your daughter inherited his skill, at least.” He pauses, and then – “Actually, my lord, would you mind if I had a word with Lady Brienne on my own? Just to discuss that fight, of course.”

Brienne almost laughs at seeing how her father gets red in the face and immediately raises his hands in agreement – she has a feeling it was the last thing he expected, and given that she knows that he _did_ try to find her a good match in two timelines, she can barely imagine how he’s feeling right now.

“But of course. Uh –”

“Father, maybe Lord Jaime could come back with me to the armory? I need to put his shield and mine back in their places.”

“If he agrees with it –”

“That will absolutely do,” Jaime replies, grinning and exuding charm from every word, and gods, has he ever look that sure of himself _without_ bragging when they knew each other the first time around? Maybe, but – _not quite so_ , especially because after they left Stoneheart’s thieves and went on to look for Sansa and then fought the White Walkers he _always_ sounded somehow self-depreciating whenever he bragged about anything.

Anyway, she heads for the armory, and he follows, and the moment he’s walked inside, she closes the door just in case, putting both shields against it –

And then she turns just to find herself face to face with him.

He’s grinning like this is the best day of his life and she doesn’t know how she looks like, but she knows she’s tentatively smiling back, and –

“Brienne?” He asks. “Please tell me I didn’t get here too early or –”

“Jaime, you got here _exactly in time_ ,” she replies, and a moment later his hands are at the sides of her face and he’s hauling her in and the moment their mouths meet she feels so relieved she could burst, and maybe she’s a bit too enthusiastic because he has to take a step back because of how fast she had thrown herself against him, but before they can crash to the ground she’s taken a hold of herself and she’s grasping at his shoulders as her tongue meets his, and she’s completely breathless when they move apart, and he’s laughing against her mouth and she doesn’t think she’s ever heard a loveliest sound in her entire life.

“Well, let me tell you, if this is how you start paying me back for the last seventeen years, you’re starting exceedingly well.”

He’s laughing as he says it, but then she realizes what he’s just implied and –

“Good gods,” she whispers, “you – you actually _did_ wait that long?”

“Who do you take me for? I keep my promises. Thing is, the anniversary of Aerys’s death is tomorrow so I was worried that you might not have remembered yet or whatever, but –”

“Jaime, I remember everything, don’t – there was no need for worrying. But – really?”

“ _Really_ ,” he smiles, “and I think it was an excellent choice given the welcome I just got.”

She shakes her head. “I – I should hope you actually, uh, didn’t…”

“If you mean to ask whether I have been with anyone else while I was waiting, _no_ , I haven’t, and I hope you know that I will have to make up for it, but if I could do that for – for my sister, sure as the seven hells I could do it for _you_.”

He sounds so impossibly _fond_ , she thinks she wants to faint. “About that, uh, listen, whatever happened when I woke up – I remember everything from my life _before_ and – never mind. It’s too complicated to explain when everyone’s waiting for us outside, but it seems like if I knew anything about Westeros’s current situation I forgot it, so – could you _please_ tell me what in the Seven Hells went down and _why_ you’re not in the Kingsguard and what did my father mean when he said your family and the Baratheons were allied? And possibly what was of Ned Stark and Lord Jon, if it’s not too much.”

He shakes his head, moving his hand behind her head, his fingers tangling in her hair.

“It’s not, I think. Well, I suppose I’ll start from what happened after you left. It seemed like I was the one left in charge and given that there was nothing honorable in the sack and I knew that the first time around Elia and Rhaenys dying were _on my father_ , I might have taken the liberty to stop the entire thing and arrest him.”

“You did _what_?”

“I actually saved his life while doing it, because when Rhaegar and Robert Baratheon showed up a while later, I had the entire situation under control, I dealt with _all_ of my father’s men who committed crimes while storming the city including Gregor Clegane and as you said, both Varys and the younger Jon Connington were ready to defend me, but – since _Rhaegar_ was going to be king at that point, I thought it wiser to leave my position. I don’t know if I’d have been any good at it anymore and – honestly, when I walked back into my room the first time I felt sick and knowing you weren’t on the other side didn’t help. And since my father was already jailed and we broke a deal… well, he’s currently on house arrest at my aunt’s as long as he lives, and _I_ took his place. Obviously.” He shakes his head, then takes a breath. “At that point… well, when I went home, Cersei had _ideas_ about reprising our relationship. I might have told her to forget it.”

“Jaime –”

“I take my vows seriously, my lady, and honestly, the moment we saw each other again – less said about it, the better. At that point I held my ground and told her that I was willing to let her choose whichever husband she liked or to stay unwed if she so wished, but we were over. It lasted a while, but eventually she did relent. And I guess that at this point I need to inform you of what Ned Stark was doing.”

“What does Stark have to do with this?”

“He has. So, he wasn’t in King’s Landing because he had gone to get his sister at the Tower of Joy. Good thing _your_ Jon Connington sent a maester there because it’s not sure she would have survived delivering that baby otherwise, but she did. With Stark present. When they came back they had named that baby and Rhaegar was very surprised that it was _Jon_ and not whatever Targaryen name he had in mind. I can only imagine why,” Jaime snorts. “Anyway, the point is, _your_ Jon Connington had managed to negotiate a deal that his younger self carried on, and the deal was that Lyanna Stark would have to choose what she wanted to do herself. As in, stay with Rhaegar as his _second wife_ since they did marry, and Elia seemed fine with that as far as _Lyanna_ was concerned, not as her husband was, or honor that betrothal with Robert.”

“Let me guess, she chose neither?”

“I might have been present when she told the both of them that – well, she was nicer about it, admittedly, but the gist of it was that she never wanted to marry Robert in the first place and Rhaegar had done her dirt wrong and she hadn’t appreciated being left in that damned tower on her own, never mind that she felt horrible about what their infatuation caused the realm, so – she said she was done with marriage talk, that she was going back to Winterfell with her baby and that when the time came she would have sent him to King’s Landing because she _knew_ he had to play a part in the Long Night, or she would have welcomed Rhaegar and the other children in Winterfell, but she wanted no part of it.”

Brienne almost wants to laugh – that sounds… that sounds perfectly plausible, given what little she knows about the lady in question.

“So, Robert found himself without a wife and Rhaegar realized it wasn’t really a good idea to press the issue, unless he wanted the whole of Dorne to take up arms just when _one_ rebellion ended without too much bloodshed. He contented himself knowing that his precious heads of the dragon were all in the world, and Robert went on to look for a wife.”

“… Are you telling me that –”

“We had a few suitors over in Casterly. My sister obviously despised all of them. Then he also showed up, and – they actually did… somewhat like each other. I’m still not sure of how much or of the specifics, I certainly never asked her and I never will, and she barely talks to me these days for that matter, but they’ve been married for fifteen years, they’re apparently not _that_ bad of a match, they have three children one of which is a spoiled brat while the other two are quite lovely kids and I’m told that they argue a lot but make up for it in different ways, so who am I to question it.”

“…That – didn’t go over so well where I came from,” she says. _And those children were yours_ , most likely.

“I was surprised myself, but at that point she had realized I wasn’t going to go back on my word and he was… over Lyanna Stark, I suppose. As far as Ned Stark is concerned, he went back North with his sister and his Tully wife gave him five children who get along splendidly with their cousin. Which I know because I’ve spent a year up there and I just recently came back.”

“ _A year_?”

“Well, you _did_ say the Long Night was going to come, but this time it was indeed – not what you said a while ago.”

“You mean that –”

“Rhaegar was _kind of_ wrong about that prophecy because – well, making a long story short, at some point just before letters from the Wall about the White Walkers started arriving all over the Seven Kingdoms, someone gifted him three dragon eggs from Essos. He thought _he_ should make them hatch, but – I don’t know how it went but his sister did it.”

“Daenerys?”

“Exactly. Why, did she –”

“She did that in my time, too. So _she_ was one of the heads of the dragon instead of…?”

“Aegon, actually. The poor kid apparently couldn’t even get close to those beasts. Anyway, they sent for Jon – I mean, Jon _Stark_ , not the other one – and turns out that the heads were him, his aunt and Rhaenys. They called the banners and all went north and I also tagged along because everyone knew I had Valyrian steel and Rhaegar knew that it could kill those – those things, and if he hadn’t I’d have volunteered anyway. Anyway, he knew what to do, he knew where to strike, those dragons _did_ obey their owners and the entire thing was done and over in a month.”

“A _month_.”

“Well, you _did_ go back in time to fix things, didn’t you?”

She thinks about _how long they fought those damned living dead_ and shudders. “Never mind. I did. So what, people are singing about your deeds?”

He laughs. “Well, I guess some did. I mean, I did kill my share of wights at that point. Anyway, just after I did, and after everyone settled back in their lives – except with dragons flying around King’s Landing and one in the North, because the poor thing wouldn’t leave Winterfell at any cost – I figured that it was time to make good on that promise I made you.”

“So what, you were traveling all around the Stormlands to have an excuse to get here without anyone getting suspicious?”

“Well, I made sure a few trusted people spread around a rumor that I was doing it to look for a wife. Which meant that every single daughter of any lord I visited was trying to convince me that she was the right person for the position, but never mind that.”

“Gods, you actually _did_ go through that effort with the swordfight on purpose?”

“I _did_ want to fight you again, but I also knew you did say you’d only marry someone who could beat you. Also, now people _would_ understand why I might be interested – as much as I’d like to just walk up to your father and asking for your hand, he would think me mad if I did it without even meeting you.”

“That’s – that’s fair,” she laughs, her hand going to his face. “Does that mean you’ll spend the next week or so finding chances to _talk to me_ and such other things?”

“That’s absolutely what I’m planning on doing. And I guess we should probably leave now lest people start wondering what we’ve been talking about, but I’m not leaving this island until your father agrees to it.”

“Jaime, he’s been hoping for me to find a _good match_ since – since I can remember, I’m sure it won’t take much convincing. But – gods, you do know that you look – amazing, for lack of better words?”

“More than usual?” He winks, and she has to laugh again because she’s never seen him so – carefree, maybe? – and it’s making her heart beat twice as fast.

“Don’t take me too seriously,” she says as she opens the door and leaves the armory, and as he follows her out, she thinks that it was _entirely_ worth it to go through all that effort just to see him like _this_.

It really was.

\--

Thing is, she had expected Jaime to talk with her father soon enough, but instead he takes it… not _slow_ , but he takes his time _indeed_. He asks her to spar every other day if he doesn’t have pressing matters, he prolongs his stay because he _really likes the island_ and his father of course doesn’t refuse him (and even if he wanted to he couldn’t), he talks to her regularly even to just exchange amenities so that other people see them talking to each other, and a few times she finds small pieces of paper slipped under her room’s door with a place and a time – usually the armory, usually after supper – where she finds him waiting for her, and while they don’t do anything past kissing savagely and Jaime telling her what else went down since she disappeared and Aerys died while she tells him more about the world she came from that doesn’t exist anymore, it’s – it’s somewhat exciting. Lovers would meet clandestinely in most songs and novels after all, and she doesn’t ever ask him if he’s _really_ sure about this because it’s obvious from the way he looks at her, and a few times those notes come with dried flowers inside it and she feels ridiculous at how much she finds it touching that he’s… pretty much _courting_ her even if he knows he doesn’t have to.

He doesn’t touch the marriage subject with her father until it’s been almost a moon and they have fought every day, more or less, and half of the serving staff is talking and gossiping about Lord Lannister possibly liking _her_ , and Brienne is just very happy to notice that Septa Roelle – who has obviously moved on to other duties – seems completely baffled at the turn of events.

When Jaime _does_ break the subject with her father, it’s in a private conversation in his solar she isn’t a part of, and she only knows of it because Jeyne comes down to get her and asks her to come up because her father wants to talk to her.

When she walks inside the room, Jaime is looking fairly calm about it but she can see that he hasn’t approached the matter as he was sure her father would agree and Selwyn himself is – well, he doesn’t look _angry_ , merely surprised, but he clears his throat as she walks in and closes the door.

“Brienne,” he asks, “you _do_ know that Lord Jaime has just asked me if I’d consider agreeing to giving your hand to _him_ in marriage, or don’t you?”

She plays it safe. “He mentioned he might ask you,” she replies.

“He mentioned it. Fair enough. And what was your opinion on it?”

She smiles slightly, knowing that she might be blushing given how much her cheeks feel like they’ve just gone on fire. “He said he might ask you if I agreed,” she says. “So – I did, or he wouldn’t be here. Also, he did beat me in a swordfight, didn’t he?”

Selwyn nods, looking at her and then at _him_ , and then he focuses on Jaime.

“My lord,” he says, “if we were discussing this in mere political terms, I would be a complete fool if I told you no, since we both know that only a fool would say no to an alliance with your House, never mind with the _head_ of your House. Honestly, my only objections would have been – I imagine that if you and my daughter have talked as much as people around here say you do, you _would_ know how her previous betrothals have gone.”

“She might have informed me, yes.”

“Well, it’s obvious that you mean it and it’s obvious that she _likes_ you, so as much as I had not expected it, I would only be too happy to agree to this marriage. If you’re sure, of course.”

“My lord,” Jaime says, “I think you aren’t saying that I would be… somehow marrying beneath my name if I went through with it because you’re too polite to, which is a concern I can understand given that you only have known my father personally. Fact is, I am _not_ my lord father. Actually, you _do_ know who my brother is currently married to, right?”

“Yes,” Selwyn agrees. “Admittedly, it came as unexpected news that he _had_ married a crofter’s daughter.”

“Well, they did like each other and she definitely doesn’t care for the family name nor for Lannister gold, and why would I be against it if it’s what makes him happy? And as far as I am concerned, I don’t need more alliances than I have already, I don’t really care for marrying someone I wouldn’t _like_ and I think she and I will get along splendidly. So maybe I’m marrying beneath my name, but I couldn’t care less. Does that satisfy your lingering doubts?”

Brienne doesn’t know if she’s ever seen her father smiling _this_ brightly at anyone he wasn’t related to.

“My lord, you just might have,” he says.

Brienne almost wants to break down crying in relief, but she doesn’t do it until she’s back in her room.

\--

They stay for another couple of weeks – Jaime sends ravens to Casterly and a few other places, she packs whatever she wants to bring and doesn’t even try to _not_ gloat every time she crosses paths with her old septa, they arrange for her father to leave with them because Jaime doesn’t want to wait months and says he doesn’t care for inviting half the realm other than the people they _have_ to.

Brienne doesn’t know how it will feel to actually be face to face with Cersei, but she figures she will cross that bridge when she gets to it. They agree on inviting the Starks – Brienne feels like Bran should be there whether he remembers or not but she figures that if they don’t bring him along it would still be appropriate to invite them – and when they sail, she decides that leaving Tarth _now_ feels a lot better than it did when she did it for Renly.

She’s entirely not surprised when for the entirety of the trip Jaime sneaks into her room every other night and sneaks out before dawn – they still don’t do anything past kissing, and in between the two of them and how many years she’s actually lived they’re maybe too old for sneaking around like kids, but – it’s nice, and she had missed sharing his bed, and he evidently missed that, too, and so she never tells him not to.

\--

“So,” she asks Jaime as they ride up to Casterly Rock, and she has to admit that it’s indeed impressive, “your brother actually married… Tysha, that was the name?”

“He did it also –”

“When I come from, yes, but your father sabotaged it. But never mind, you don’t want to know.” _You really don’t, given how guilty you felt about it all along._

“I don’t think so, either,” he agrees. “For that matter, she’s a lovely girl and she’s been great for him and the entire staff, you’ll probably like her. I don’t think they’ll be here until tonight though, he’s going around Lannisport getting things ready for the wedding and she’s going with him, as far as I gathered from his ravens.” She nods and they ride silently until they’re at the gates.

Then –

“By the way,” he says as he dismounts and they walk inside the castle’s yard, and if the soldiers at the gate are looking at her queerly she can’t give a damn, “there’s someone here who’d like to talk to you who’s not my brother. You go ahead, I’ll wait for your father and the rest of the luggage.”

“ _Someone_ who wants to talk to me?”

“Just go ahead.”

“… Fine,” she agrees, and walks inside the castle’s inner gate after crossing the yard – no one is there, thankfully, and, apparently, Jaime cares not for people welcoming him with a lot of effort whenever he comes back from anyplace.

As she takes notice of her surroundings, she only notices servants going one way or the other, but then –

“I see he brought you back after all.”

Brienne freezes and turns to her right side, looking down and finding herself face to face with –

“ _Jon_?” She asks, her voice suddenly faltering.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

It _has_ , she thinks, but it’s _definitely_ him – his hair is a more faded shade of red and it has more gray than it did back in the day, he still lacks an arm, he’s wearing a dark red outfit with some gold here and there and he looks definitely happy to see her, if anything.

“It has,” she whispers. “But – how are you _here_?”

“I think this requires an explanation. Do follow me.”

She does, and he brings her into a quiet room full of what looks like accounting books. He locks the door.

“I assume,” he says, “that you thought I would be in King’s Landing, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she replies. “I mean, Bran did – talk to me. He said you chose to stay, so I figured Rhaegar recognized you and you wanted to stay for that. I – guess I was wrong?”

He shrugs, looking wistfully out of the window. “Pretty much,” he says. “I mean – my plan originally implied giving Lyanna Stark back to her brother, Rhaegar didn’t agree and Robert didn’t agree, either, and they were going to fight each other to death to settle the matter. I ran into Ned Stark, he agreed to help Robert convince him on that middle ground of letting his sister decide what she wanted, and – throughout the entire thing, I talked to him twice and he didn’t recognize me, sad to say.”

“I’m sorry,” Brienne immediately says. She feels horrible for him, honestly – she _knows_ how he felt about Rhaegar, and she had hoped he had finally found his place beside him, but –

“Don’t look that devastated,” he says, and – he doesn’t sound too broken up about it. Then again, it’s been almost twenty years, but – “First of all, you were half right anyway. Who do you think is the current Hand of the King?”

“… Younger you?”

“Exactly. He got what _I_ wanted back in the day, so I suppose one of us won out, and – if Rhaegar was better to _him_ than to me, no point in getting myself too broken up about it. I lived _for_ him for – a very long time, it was probably time I did something for myself. Also – well, I might have moved on.”

“Moved on – wait a moment,” she asks, wondering if it means what she thinks it means, but he’s smiling _very_ sweetly as he says it. “Oh. _Oh_. Congratulations. Someone I know or –”

“You do,” he replies. “Unless he never brought you the ravens I sent, but he says he did.”

“The ravens – _oh_.” The pretty young man from the inn, she remembers. “No, he did give me both, if you mean that northern man who met me in the inn. So – he’s here, too? And what’s the name? I think he told me but I can't recall right now.”

“Eddard, and believe me it was the cause of entirely too many jokes before your future husband got tired of it. That said, it kind of ties in with how I’m here in the first place. I went back to King’s Landing after Stoney Sept, and I ran into _that someone you know_ and – things happened. So we figured we’d go somewhere together but no one had clear ideas, then your man quit the Kingsguard and left the city, but before then he did a last check around the city to make sure it was as safe as it could be and we ran into each other at the inn. Where he immediately recognized me because _you_ told him, didn’t he?”

“I might have,” she says. “But I imagine Jaime shared the entire story, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Jon agrees. “So, he hears me out and asks me if I have any plans, I tell him no. He asks me if I know anything about handling a castle’s finances and so on, and I tell him that of course I do, I was my father’s only heir. He says that since he had been set on being a knight all along _and_ he never was too great at actually _reading_ and his teachers hadn’t exactly cared to hear him out he has no idea of how you handle being that kind of lord and asks me if I’d be willing to go with him and help him out. I said yes and warned me I might have someone with me without such a skillset, he shrugged and said that Casterly Rock was huge enough that we could definitely work something out. So, we went with. It was a fairly good life decision, let me tell you.”

“So you do his accounting now?”

“No, _he_ does it, but I had to teach him from scratch. Along with his brother. He did learn, though. Anyway, if you were doubting whether he waited for you that long, he actually did.”

“I knew he would,” Brienne replies. “He did it for his sister back in the day, I was sure he would if he wanted. I just was hoping he wouldn’t do it for nothing in case things didn’t work out, but –”

Jon shakes his head and moves closer. “Brienne, he counted the damned days.”

“ _What_?”

“He did. There’s a book somewhere – we helped do the math to figure out how long we had to wait until it was seventeen years for sure, and he kept count of it. Let me tell you, you chose a lot more wisely than _I_ did when it came to –”

“I didn’t really,” she interrupts him. “I told you that I thought I couldn’t live if Renly Baratheon didn’t, and I actually did, so – I think I understand where you come from more than you might imagine.”

“ _Right_ ,” he says. “Well, then I guess we both picked better the second time.”

“For sure. By the way, if you’re doing the accounting, your –”

“Oh, _he_ did a lot of things here and there I think including instructing Lord Tyrion on the fine ways of making a woman happy when it comes to one’s _marital duties_ , I never dared ask, but at some point he’s ended up in the kitchen and never left. Most likely he’ll be in charge of your wedding sweets.”

“Will he?”

“He found out he has a talent for that. None of us are complaining.” He looks _exceedingly_ glad of it as he speaks, though, and Brienne smiles back as she moves closer.

“Good. So – I suppose – it might not have been what you imagined but – I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look happy in the entire time we’ve known each other.”

“I had no reasons, I guess,” he shrugs. “Now – well, I like what I’m doing, it’s nothing terrible or that implies having to fight people or watching them die, I have a nice house in Lannisport and I’m not on my own in it and I still had the chance to do right by _some_ of Rhaegar’s offspring, so I do have reasons, don’t I?”

“Wait, what’s that about?”

“Why do you think Jon Stark has _that_ name in this timeline? Not for Jon Arryn.”

“For – oh. _Oh_. Where we come from Ned Stark named him after Jon Arryn but _here_ they named him after you because you sent that maester or because _you_ told Stark where his sister was?”

“Both things,” he confirms. “I do visit there once in a while, and likewise. He’s – the same as he was back in our time, just nowhere as perpetually sad about things.”

Brienne nods – she’s glad of it, really. Jon Snow hardly deserved the hand he was dealt, and she could believe he was perpetually sad about things back in the day. She’s – she’s happy he’s not, now.

“That said,” Jon tells her, “I certainly wasn’t expecting to be organizing _your_ wedding when we got sent back in time, but I suppose I can’t complain about it.”

“Please, I’m glad it’s you,” she replies, sincerely, and she means every word of it.

At that, they do move at pretty much the same time, and it’s not the kind of awkward-feeling hug they shared before he left King’s Landing – it feels a lot nicer than that, and she can’t believe they both ended up here after all, but –

She’s only too glad of it.

\--

The wedding is a moon later.

The only two things she’s glad of are that Jaime has spared her most of the menial tasks she should have handled like sewing her cloak – some very eager maid is working on that, thank the gods – and that most of the guests won’t get here until maybe a couple of days before the day in question.

For the rest, she has to endure _every_ other Lannister in existence that’s not Tyrion or the infamous Aunt Genna being openly skeptical of Jaime’s choices – Jaime mostly replies that it’s not like anyone can tell him not to and doesn’t listen to any of them, which is honestly a balm to her nerves, but she just wishes for this farce to be done as soon as possible. She ends up delegating any choices she might have about the food or the organization to Jon and his man, who is in face _exceedingly_ good at crafting cinnamon honeycakes and who might also look older than he used to be but is still fairly handsome, if one asked for her sincere opinion, and then she ends up with her room filled with red and gold gowns courtesy of Aunt Genna and she hates how _all_ of them fit her.

One week before the wedding, she tells Jaime that she’d rather get married in armor, and he laughs and asks her if she really wants to.

“Well,” she admits, “when I was younger I – liked to think that if it ever happened that I would marry someone I liked and who didn’t hate the idea of marrying _me_ I wouldn’t have to wear something _different_ , but all of these are just – I’m going to faint if I wear any of them. And they’re so –”

“Excessive?” He suggests.

“… Yes. Sorry, I don’t mean to insult your aunt, but –”

“Brienne, being _excessive_ is the family trait. That said, I might have a solution.”

“You might?”

“Just you wait,” he tells her, and three days later a maid brings another dress that _he_ sends, not his aunt.

Brienne tells her to leave it on the bed, and –

Oh. It’s a dress, all right, but it’s not a _gown_ – for one, it wouldn’t need a corset. The waist is higher than usual, just under the breasts, which means she could wear it the way it is. It’s obviously tailored, but it’s also – very soft dark red cloth, without many frills except for the hems sewn in gold and a small gold bow keeping the waist tied. And it has long sleeves but not terribly tight.

“I had to pay a few seamstresses in Lannisport to have it down on time,” Jaime says walking inside the room, “but I think _that_ would fit you better, wouldn’t it? I just hope your problem wasn’t with the _color_ , but –”

“Jaime, I’m marrying _you_ , as long as it’s not pink I’m fine.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Did I ever tell you about that time you saved me from a bear?”

“You did. Why?”

“Because I was wearing a horrible pink gown while it was happening. Anyway – I could try it on.”

“Do go ahead. I was assured you wouldn’t need a maid to do it.”

He leaves the room and she gets rid of her clothes and slips the dress on. It fits her perfectly – gods, it _almost_ looks like she has more of a bosom like this. She doesn’t think she’s ever worn a _womanly_ dress that fit her so nicely.

Jaime walks back inside the room a moment later.

He _whistles._

“I _really_ hope you might want to wear it,” he says.

“… It would be a pity if it was _only_ for the wedding though, wouldn’t it?”

He looks positively radiant at her reaction, and she doesn’t even think as her hands slips downwards and grabs his.

“I concur. You can wear it whenever you like,” he agrees. “And by the way, no traditional bedding. If anyone ruined it _now_ that would be a pity, wouldn’t it?”

She shudders at the thought of it – yes, she can _absolutely_ avoid a proper bedding.

“I’d say it would be,” she replies, and she doesn’t take it off for a while yet.

\--

Guests start trickling in three days before the wedding. Most of the Westerlands lords are here, of course, and a few from the Stormlands. Stannis Baratheon arrives before both of his brothers, and Brienne is somewhat surprised to find out that in _this_ timeline he’s wed to Dacey Mormont out of everyone – she needs to ask Jaime about _that,_ but he certainly looks happier than he did when she met him at the Wall after both his wife and only daughter died and he had words to spare just for the latter. His daughter has greyscale here, too, she notices, but she doesn’t look as sad or sullen as Brienne was told she used to and her parents obviously love her, so – good for him, too, Brienne decides. Renly arrives along with the Tyrells in attendance because he left from Highgarten, _of course_ , and she’s really glad that the first thing she feels as she sees him and Loras Tyrell riding in side by side with Margaery trailing just behind is not jealousy or anything of the sort but – she’s just glad he’s happy if anything because he always was good to _her_ , but that’s it.

The Starks arrive at the same time as Robert and Cersei, more or less, and Brienne doesn’t want to know if they arrived late on purpose or not. What she’s more interested in is noticing _who_ came with Ned Stark – his wife, of course, then Jon Snow – no, he’s not _Snow_ here, who is definitely in great relations with his namesake and looks definitely happier now than he ever did back in the day. Then there’s Sansa, and Brienne can imagine why she wouldn’t want to miss what’s most likely going to be a _very_ talked about wedding, and – and then they brought Bran, who one might not think an obvious choice and who is perfectly courteous as he introduces himself to her.

He walks in this world, she can’t help noticing, but of course he would, because nothing that brought him to his fall has transpired now, has it?

Cersei is obviously pretending to be as polite as she can get away with while side-eyeing her, but she doesn’t look like she _cares_ overtly much, and Robert is quick to finish introductions because then he ends up finding Ned Stark and mostly sticking to his side, when he and his wife aren’t agreeing over the wine’s quality throughout the entire dinner the evening before the wedding day.

“I don’t understand,” Brienne whispers as she leans closer to Jaime, “if she wants to murder me or not.”

“Maybe,” Jaime agrees, “but I think it’s been long enough and she’s over it. I hope so, anyway.”

He sounds like he’s not interested in pursuing that conversation any further, and so she doesn’t press.

She just hopes he’s right.

\--

That evening, she slips out of her room and walks into the yard – there’s no godswood here, but it’s also very empty, and she needs to breathe some fresh air. Gods. They’re getting married tomorrow, and she has no idea of how she got here at all, but it seems like she _did_ , and maybe it’s high time she gets to enjoy her life instead of suffering through every turn of it.

Maybe it is –

“Lady Brienne?”

She’s not surprised to find Bran Stark climbing down the wall next to her – his room is on the first floor and has a view on the yard, now that she thinks about it.

“Has your mother ever told you how dangerous _that_ is?”

He shrugs, smiling sheepishly, but then he looks up at her and his eyes suddenly look way older than they should be.

Oh.

“I asked to come,” he says. “I remember everything.”

_Oh._

“I – I don’t know if I would have wished it on you or not,” she says quietly.

“It’s all right,” he says, “it didn’t happen _here_ , after all. And it was probably better that I knew. Don’t worry, I pay a lot of attention when I climb.”

She laughs in relief. “Well, good to know you don’t regret it. It’s just, you said you hoped you wouldn’t.”

“Well, I hadn’t – I regretted about everything. But not sending you both back. I just wanted to wish you all the best, my lady, and him, too. He paid in spades for his wrongdoings, I think, and he’s earned it this time around.”

“Thank you,” she tells him, sincerely. “And – if I can – I just wanted to say, you were too young for having such a job thrust upon you. I’m glad you don’t have to have it _now_.”

“Believe me, no one is happier about it than I am. Have a good life, Lady Brienne, you both earned it.”

Before she can say anything in reply, he climbs back up to his opened window.

She goes to bed feeling lighter than before, and now that she was pretty much confirmed that it’s done and over and she can just worry about what comes next, she feels – a lot less nervous about tomorrow, and the day after.

\--

The next day, she wears the dress along with a pair of red flats that the maids conveniently bring up. She lets them style her hair as much as it can be, again, but she’s glad they settle on the least intricate braid they could come up with. By the time they’re done she looks – she doesn’t know _how_ she looks but she knows that she’s never looked _this_ good in female garb. Hells, she didn’t know she could look _good_ in female garb in the first place.

She laces her blue and pink cloak and takes a last good look at herself in the mirror, then walks out of the door and finds herself face to face with her father.

“Gods,” he says, “now I’m sad Septa Roelle never thought of finding you _that_ kind of gown.”

“I’m glad she hasn’t,” she replies. “If she did, I might have had to marry someone else, right?”

She knows she _sounds_ ridiculous, but then her father takes her arm saying that she has a point and he hopes Lannister will make her happy, but he as a feeling he might.

They walk down to the sept and she absolutely does _not_ even glance at the people in attendance – she just stares ahead where Jaime’s waiting for her dressed in red and gold, too, looking even more handsome than usual if that’s even possible, with Tyrion behind him holding the cloak, and she doesn’t know how she doesn’t faint on the spot because _this_ kind of grand marriage had _never_ been in her plans, but she doesn’t – honestly, fuck that, she _killed a king_ and traveled back in time and had to bury Jaime once already and to forsake her vows more than once, she won’t be stopped by something that she’s actually _wanted_.

“That looks _great_ on you,” Jaime whispers as they turn towards the septon. “Do wear it more often.”

The septon clears his throat loudly enough that they get the message, but she doesn’t really take notice of what he says until it’s time to exchange cloaks and say the vows. Jaime makes quick work of getting rid of her cloak and draping the red and gold Lannister one around her shoulders, and she doesn’t know which one of them says _with this kiss I pledge my love_ more promptly, but the moment the septon finally says they can kiss (as if they never have before) they move at the same time and she kisses him _for real_ , and he kisses back with enough enthusiasm that a few people from the audience cough, and then _some_ clap and others don’t, but she can’t give a damn, not when she’s feeling so happy she could burst with it and he’s looking at her like he finally has everything he’s ever wanted right in front of him.

As they leave, she dares glancing at the first row. Cersei looks like she just swallowed a lemon, Sansa is openly crying in the second, Jon is in the third smiling knowingly at her and she nods back at him before Jaime drags her outside saying that they should just get started with the feast already.

She doesn’t say, _for me it’s already started since you showed up on Tarth_ – she can tell him later.

\--

“So,” Jaime asks as he _finally_ shuts the door of his (their?) bedroom behind him, “am I wrong or your favorite wedding present was _absolutely_ Stannis’s set of plates and glasses for everyday dining?”

“Your brother’s books were also very appreciated, but – maybe.” She admits, “That said, the dining set is _useful_. Definitely more than your cousin’s Essosi sewing tools and threads. I mean, does he really think that I might spend _any_ amount of time sewing?”

“Fine, fine, point taken. Well, you don’t have to use them, do you?”

“Please, I was never good at that.”

“It’s not your most prized skill,” he agrees. “And by the way, before anything else… you didn’t get _my_ wedding gift.”

“… I didn’t think _you_ needed to give me wedding gifts.”

He shakes his head – he does look entirely too amused for his own good.

“Just close your eyes.”

“For real?”

“Please, humor me.”

She huffs and does as she sits down on the bed, and she hears him opening and shutting the closet – what? She doubts it’s a _dress_ , but – maybe armor?

She doesn’t open her eyes, though, not until she feels a _familiar_ shape being placed in her hands and a weight she knows even too well, and –

Brienne’s eyes slam open at once and she looks down at Oathkeeper – he’s holding only the hilt, but the moment her fingers wrap around the sheath, he lets it go.

“Jaime –”

“ _Brienne_. I don’t know if – if when _I_ gave it to you in your time I was intending it as a loan or if it was just what you thought, but if I know myself, it most probably _wasn’t_ one, especially if I couldn’t use it. But never mind that. What I know is that as far as I’m concerned this was yours when you showed up in my life and it was yours when you left it, and while I certainly couldn’t have asked for a better sword in these last years – it never felt _mine_. It’s yours. It will always be yours. And _you_ should have it back. Now, there aren’t many wights around left to kill, sadly, but I’m sure that you will find some way to put it to use.”

She thinks she’s crying. Her vision is _definitely_ blurred. “Jaime, I don’t know if I can do anything worthier with it than what I already have, but –” She reaches up, wipes at her eyes and yes, her hand comes away wet with salt and she doesn’t even know what she should say, so she reaches out, takes his hand and puts it back on the hilt. “Maybe we should just share rather than arguing about whom it belongs?”

“I do like that prospect,” he smiles, “and speaking of _swords_ of other kinds –”

“… _That_ was terrible,” she laughs, and puts the sword away carefully against the wall before standing up and moving close to him. “But do go ahead.”

“I merely meant to say that I took my vows seriously and I haven’t touched a woman since you ran off the throne room in King’s Landing, so I should hope you have appreciated it.”

She shakes her head, her hands going to his hips. “You mean, you want me to show you exactly how much?”

“ _Well_ , for real, we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to –”

“Jaime, I think there’s _something_ you might have missed in the whole part where I told you we were _lovers_.”

“Do explain.”

“It was the end of the world and I was entirely done caring about dishonor and the likes. In _this_ world, we might have done nothing. In mine, we have laid together enough that I might have lost count, at some point.”

She can pinpoint at once the moment he understands what she means.

“Are you implying that –”

“That not only I _absolutely_ would like to show you how much I appreciated your effort, but – I know what you like, for that matter, unless your tastes have changed.”

“… I would be entirely fine with finding out, then,” he says, his voice suddenly dropping lower.

“Gladly,” she breathes against his mouth before kissing him and turning the both of them so that he’s with his knees pressing against the mattress, and she kisses him long and hard before gently pushing him backwards – he ends up with his back on the bed, his hands grasping her dress at the hips, and – right. Maybe it’s high time she takes it off, she decides, and so she does in a swift motion before she leaves it on the nearest chair and moves back to the bed; while she was doing that, he has moved so that he’s lying against the pillows, but he made no motion to imply that he’d like that position reversed. He’s also taken off his boots, good, and who cares if she’s naked and he still has most of his clothes on – he won’t very soon.

“So,” she says, her hands unbuttoning his jacket and shirt, “there were a _lot_ of things you used to like, but feel free to correct me at any point.”

“The only thing I have a problem with right now is that I’m wearing clothes,” he huffs.

“Well, you _did_ seem to like it if I was the one taking them off,” she quips back as she slips both jacket and shirt from his shoulders, revealing his bare chest underneath.

“Not complaining,” he breathes, and she can see that his face is flushing slightly. Good.

“You also,” Brienne says, “ _really_ liked _this_.” She reaches out, grabs his wrists and pins them against the pillows, and the fact that he has both hands now feels strange for a moment but then she looks down at him and she can see that his lips have parted and his pupils look larger and the green around them is glinting in ways that are making her stomach turn on itself again.

“ _Absolutely_ not complaining,” he whispers. “If you don’t mind –”

She leans down, kisses him again to shut him up and then she figures she does owe him the truth.

“Do you know how we figured that out? Or better, do you _want_ to know?”

“I might become jealous of myself here, but do go ahead.”

 

She laughs. “Don’t worry, it’s always _you_ ,” she tells him, and patience if she’s not even trying to hide how glad she is of it. “Well, we used to do it – properly, I suppose. Then you started saying we should switch because without a hand being on top might be a problem, and suddenly it was _way_ better, and then you said it was a half-excuse because you didn’t want to outright ask me. I _think_ ,” she goes on, “that it’s a waste of time to go through the same charade now if there’s no need?”

“That – that sounds very sensible,” he admits, shivering as her mouth brushes against his cheek. “So, I assume you have a plan?”

“My plan is that given that you definitely deserve to find out how much I appreciated your sacrifice, you could grab the headboard so I can have my hands back for a moment and you just lie back and I do all the work, what do you say?”

“I think I can do that,” he says, looking like he can’t wait for it, and he reaches back and grabs the headboard the moment she lets his hands go and –

Right. _Right_. It’s been a long time, technically and _not_ , but Brienne hasn’t forgotten anything, especially not what he used to like, not when she committed to memory every single time she got him to scream her name, because after finding out that what happened when sharing a bed with a man was not the chore her septa always sold it as _and_ that they could both find pleasure in it she was set on remembering it, and she knows what to do.

She takes it slow. She leans down, her hands curling around his shoulders and squeezing as she kisses him full on the mouth first and then as her mouth trails lower, along his chin and neck – she bites lightly at the hollow of it and from the noise he makes, he _definitely_ likes this now as much as he did back in the day.

Good, she thinks, and kisses her way down his chest, taking her time to run her tongue over most faint and not scars he still has on his skin – some are different than what she remembers but she can’t care less, honest, and by the time she’s done with lavishing attention at them she _can_ feel that he’s way beyond bothered, and since right now she’s not interested in making him suffer, given how long he’s actually waited for her, she doesn’t tease. She unlaces his breeches, moving them out of the way along with his smallclothes, and she considers her options for a moment before deciding that they have the entire night and a lot of time to make up for so it’s not as if she’s in a hurry to do everything at once.

“Don’t hold back,” she says, and before he can ask for explanations she leans down – it’s not the _ideal_ position but it’s too much hassle to change now and she’s sure they’ll have time to do this with more finesse – and she takes him in her mouth, feeling moderately thankful that he’s not full hard yet or it’d have been a lot harder and she’s somewhat out of practice, and she’d smile as he moans her name while she runs her tongue along the head before sucking on it slowly, but she has better things to think of, as in, how to make sure he _keeps on doing it_ , and she picks up a faster pace as she feels him get harder inside her mouth, and fuck but she had felt _horribly_ embarrassed the first time she did this and now she really is _not_ – who cares. He’s enjoying it, _vocally_ , and she feels blood rush downwards at the thought that she’s the cause of it, and she’s this tempted to touch herself but _no_ , not now. She hears him say something about being _close_ and she considers ignoring him, but then she figures that maybe –

 _Maybe not_.

She stops and moves away, taking a moment to wipe her chin somewhat clean given that she’s sticky with pre-come everywhere, and he groans in utter displeasure as she does it.

“That’s cruel,” he moans as she moves upwards, her hair sticking to her face.

“Just you wait,” she says, her hand reaching out for his wrist – she kneels so that her knees are around his thighs and she moves his hand in between her legs without too many ceremonies. He groans again at feeling exactly how wet she is, and then before he can do anything else she wraps her fingers against his own and lines herself up with his cock, which at this point looks painfully hard, and she doesn’t know if it’s going to hurt but she can’t care less, and so she takes a breath and lowers herself down on it. It _doesn’t_ hurt too much, actually, and she’s fairly sure that people must have heard the both of them downstairs for the noises that came out of both their mouths, but _who cares_.

“Gods,” he says, “you weren’t japing when you said you _knew_.” He’s smiling though, and he sounds breathless as he speaks, and she smiles back as she reaches out with the other hand and tangles their fingers together, and then presses both their joined hands against the pillow.

“Of course I didn’t,” she says, and then she _moves_ and he thrusts up against her, but he does it following _her_ motions, and she should probably consider paying full attention to what’s going on here, and then she realizes that he doesn’t _have_ to pull out a moment before she comes _now_ – he had to back in the day where it would have been a disaster if she should end up pregnant _after_ the world had died, but now it’s not a problem, and so she leans down and kisses him again as she slows down the pace, because she wants this to last as much as they can manage.

“Fuck,” he blurts, “I have the feeling – I haven’t been the only one who needed to make up for lost time, have I?”

“No,” she says, “gods, _no_ ,” and she leans down again, their mouths meeting halfway, his fingers’ grip on hers getting stronger even if he’s absolutely not trying to switch their positions – he warns her again when he realizes he’s getting close but she just slows down maybe a bit more as she feels getting _there_ , too, and she clenches around him just after he thrusts upwards with a last push, and at that point she lets his hands go so that she can take his face in between her palms and kiss him again – his own arms go around her back and they ride it out pressed close together, and even when she can feel that he’s not shaking against her anymore and that he’s completely spent, she can’t bring herself to move. She leans back a bit so that they both can catch their breath and when he opens his eyes he definitely looks like someone who thoroughly enjoyed what they just did.

Brienne reaches out and smooths a few errant strands of hair from his forehead and she feels a shiver run along her back as he presses up against her hand and when she leans back down they kiss a lot slower and a lot less frantically than before – at some point she does have to lean back a bit so he can pull out, and there’s a comfortable burn in between her legs, and she thinks she could stand going for a second round soon enough.

Though not just _now_.

“So,” she finally manages to say, “am I rewarding you properly?”

“More than,” he confirms, his right hand undoing what little is left of her braid. “But I should hope it was the beginning of it. Seventeen years are a long time, you know.”

“Don’t worry, as far as I’m concerned I’m not even done for tonight.”

“Now that’s something I like to hear,” he whispers against her cheek. “But I think the wait has definitely paid off for now.”

“Flatterer.”

“You know,” he tells her as she rolls over and moves on his side, figuring that maybe she should let him breathe for a while, “Rhaenys was devastated when you disappeared.”

“What, really?”

“Yes,” he confirms, “she kept on asking me if I knew where you had gone and I told her that I knew but you couldn’t come back for a while. Now – I avoided inviting any of them because it’s still a delicate enough situation and while everyone agreed that _killing Aerys_ was justifiable, it’s just – better not to. But she does visit once in a while.”

“She does? Gods, what is she going to say when we meet?”

“Most likely that it was time you showed up, and she’ll probably want to know, but I guess at this point telling her the truth wouldn’t hurt.”

“No, I don’t think it would. We’ll tell her then, but – if I could have stayed I would have.”

“I know.” He rolls over, his forehead touching hers. “But really, I get why you couldn’t have. And I think I did all right, didn’t I?”

“More than,” Brienne tells him, not even giving it a second thought. “And let me tell you, I – it’s not been easy but I couldn’t have asked anything more than getting to be with you twice.”

“Now that’s unfair since as _I_ am concerned it’s been just once, but all things considered I’ll trust your judgment. If anything, I get to reap the benefits now, don’t I?”

She laughs, because _of course_ he’d say that, wouldn’t he?

“Jaime Lannister, I’m more than amenable to show you _all_ of those benefits in the shortest possible time. I could start again shortly, actually.”

“Let a man catch his breath,” he says, “but I’m absolutely delighted with that plan. Especially if you have more ideas of that kind.”

“Well, I should be fair to you and show you all the things I know _for sure_ that you might like.”

“Now I like that even more,” he nods.

“I’m just – I’m just sorry that I had to leave, you know. And you know, you _could_ have been with other people in the meantime, I wouldn’t –”

“Brienne, just so that I don’t ever hear you apologize for it again, let me tell you now – it was a long time and if I could have avoided it I would have, if it meant _you_ being there of course, but it had to happen and I’m japing about making up for lost time, but it wasn’t a hard decision, and it wasn’t hard to go through with it. I know _you wouldn’t have minded_ , if it was what you were about to say.”

“It – it was.”

“Well, _that_ also was one of the reasons it wasn’t hard. I knew you weren’t asking it of me in the first place, and if I had been with other people it wouldn’t have been the same thing. For that matter – when I kissed you it was also to see if I was right about the two of us having been together in _your_ time.”

“And what did you deduce other than the fact that you were right?”

“That you weren’t kissing me expecting it to be about what I could do _for you_ , and that was plain obvious. I’ve had enough time to think about it to come to that conclusion. And if I had been with other people, it – it wouldn’t have felt right. So no, it wasn’t hard. I knew it’d be worth it. And it _was_ , and we do have all the time to catch up now, so – don’t go around feeling guilty about it, all right?”

“All right,” she answers, feeling like her throat is so clammed she can barely speak, and then she realizes that she might have _showed_ it to him in every other way, but she hasn’t actually _told_ him. “Gods, I’m – I guess it would sound kind of ridiculous now after _everything_ and I’m sure you don’t need to be told to be sure of it, but – I love you and I just hope it was the most redundant thing I could say.”

“I _think_ I understood that seventeen years ago,” he says, but he looks radiant at having heard it, and his grip on her waist gets tighter as he presses up to her. “But it’s never redundant to hear it. And I love you, too, or do you think I wouldn’t have found it hard to wait? I just knew it would have been worth it.”

“Well, everything else I had to do in order to get here was worth it, too.” She throws a leg over his waist and kisses him again, and again, and she thinks she’ll move on to showing him how much exactly she means it in a moment.

But for now –

For now she’s so glad she’s here she could burst with it, and she can’t wait to see what _this_ future has in store for the both of them (after all, with all the effort they put into making it, it better be worth it), and maybe next time she should tell him, _I couldn’t have asked anything more than getting to love you twice_ , but they have time for that, and as he kisses her back like he’s been starved for it all along –

Brienne knows that she’d go through what she has all over again if it means getting _here_ , and maybe she should tell him, but she’s sure that he knows that, and they talked enough.

 

Yes, everything they had to go through to get here – it was worth it.

It was _completely_ , absolutely worth it.

 

 

 

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M DONE. /o\


End file.
